BxRAHCOWHLLEWOYNE 


^P  ^ 


hm, 


\  ("KcY^ 


Monologues  \ 

No.   32 


•  ■ 


EDGARS  WERNER 

NEW  YORK 


GEORGE  RIDDLE 


-- 


Published  fay 

EDGAR  S.  WERNER  &  OCX 
NEW  YORK 


>pyfight,  1904,  by  Edgar  S.  Werner 

— ,,.  ...  _, 


USES  OF  CREPE  AND 
TISSUE   PAPER.^w 


A   BOOK      For  making  a  great  variety  of 

of  93  large  pages,    P1"?."/       and        usefuI        household 

containing  articles,  such  as  Candle  and  lamp- 
244  illustrations  shades,  Boxes,  Bags,  Photograph 
a  directions  Cases  and  Frames,  Handkerchief 
and  Glove  Sachets,  Pen-wipers, 
Flowers,  Blossoms,  Curtains,  Doll-dresses,  Cos- 
tumes, Fancy  and  Ball  Dresses.  Hats,  Parasols, 
Fans,  and  various  other  novelties  for -home, 
church-fairs,  festivals,  etc. 

Price,  30  CENTS,  Postpaid 

We  Sell  Crepe-paper,  Tissue-paper,  and  Other  Similar 
Accessories.      Write  for  particulars. 


TABLEAUX,   CHARADES, 
AND   CONUNDRUMS«r*«5a^ 


A  BOOK  CONTAINING   DIRECTIONS   FOR 
TABLEAUX  VIVANTS, 

TABLEAUX    PLASTIQUES, 
TABLEAUX  D'ART, 

TABLEAUX  OF   LEGEND, 
ROMANCE   AND   HISTORY, 

CHILDREN'S  TABLEAUX, 
LIVING  PICTURES, 

ARTIST'S   REVERIE, 
ART-GALLERY, 

SONGS   IN   ACTION, 
CHARADES  OF  VARIOUS  KINDS, 

LIST  OF  WORDS  FOR  CHARADES, 
and  over8oo  CONUNDRUMS 

Price,  30   CENTS,  Postpaid 


Send  orders  for  either  of  the  above  books  to 

EDGAR  S.  WERNER  &  CO.  UNE|W  S&? 


Werner's 
Readings  and  Recitations 

o.  32 


Jttoitalogucs 


COMPILED    AND    ARRANGED    BY 

STANLEY   SCHEIX 


u 


u 


Enlarged  Edition 


EDGAR  S.  WERNER  &  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK. 


Copyright,  1904,  1912,  by  Edgar  S.  Werner.     All  rights  reserved. 


WHAT   MONOLOGUE   IS. 


CHARLES  BARNARD. 


Written  expressly  for  this  book. 


A  great  variety  of  meanings  appear  to  be  given  to  the  word 
"monologue." 

1.  Any  long  speech  or  soliloquy  given  by  one  character  in  a  story 

or  play. 

2.  A  story  related  by  one  person  and  to  certain  forms  of  recita- 

tions. 

3.  A  performance  by  one  person  of  any  scene  or  selection  from  a 

play  in  which  the  performer  assumes  one  or  more  characters. 

4.  A  "variety  sketch"  or  a  confused  collection  of  smart  or  amus- 

ing sayings. 
To-day,  the  term  monologue  is  applied  to  a  comparatively  new 
form  of  literary  art.  The  correct  definition  of  this  use  of  the  term 
is  a  story  told  in  the  first  person  by  one  character,  who  assumes 
that  other  and  invisible  characters  are  present,  addressing  them, 
and  by  appropriate  words  and  actions  making  all  they  say  and  do 
clear  to  the  audience.  This  form  of  monologue  differs  from  the 
recitation  in  several  particulars.  A  recitation  may  tell  of  past 
events.  A  monologue  is  a  complete  story  of  one  or  more  events 
that  take  place  during  the  time  of  the  performance.  It  may  only 
indirectly  refer  to  anything  that  happened  before  the  story  begins. 
It  is  a  complete  fiction  of  a  single  transaction  or  of  a  connected 
series  of  transactions  beginning  and  ending  with  the  performance. 
It  employs  only  one  visible  character,  and  all  the  other  characters 
of  the  story  are  assumed  to  be  present,  though  unseen.  The  per- 
former does  not  introduce  himself  or  herself  or  give  any  previous 
explanations,  but  appears  as  the  character,  and  at  the  end  leaves 


WERNER'S  READINGS   AND   RECITATIONS  NO.   32.         3 

the  stage  platform  without  acknowledging  the  presence  of  the 
audience. 

In  many  respects  a  monologue  thus  resembles  a  play.  Scenery, 
costume,  properties,  and  action  are  used  to  enhance  the  effect  of 
the  performance.  The  stage  may  be  set  as  for  a  regular  play  and 
the  curtain  may  "discern"  the  performer  in  the  character  of  the 
story  and  may  fall  at  the  end  on  a  "picture."  It  can  also  be  given 
without  a  curtain  and  without  scenery,  employing  only  costume, 
furniture,  properties  and  action.  In  this  case,  the  performer  en- 
ters and  leaves  the  platform  at  the  beginning  and  end  of  the  per- 
formance. 

All  dramatic  art  is  founded  on  a  convention  or  unspoken  but 
real  agreement  between  the  performers  and  the  audience.  The 
audience  in  a  theatre  agree  to  accept  the  actor  as  the  imaginary 
character  in  the  play.  He  may  appear  as  a  wholly  impossible 
character,  as  the  Invisible  Prince  in  a  fairy  story.  He  is  not  in- 
visible, but  the  audience  accept  the  convention.  In  an  opera  house 
the  audience  accept  the  convention  that  the  expiring  tenor  may  die 
singing  at  the  top  of  his  voice.  It  is  a  convention  that  a  painted 
ship  is  a  real  ship  and  that  Macbeth's  dagger  is  real  to  Macbeth. 
In  like  manner,  it  is  a  convention  that  the  single  character  in  a 
monologue  should  address  wholly  invisible  characters  that  he  as- 
sumes are  present,  though  unseen  by  the  audience.  In  effect,  it 
is  an  appeal  to  the  imagination  of  the  listener,  a  suggestive  pictur- 
ing of  the  invisible  before  the  minds  of  the  audience. 

Once  accept  the  convention  and  the  monologue  becomes  one  of 
the  highest  and  most  artistic  forms  of  entertainment.  It  is  like  an 
impressionist  picture.  The  one  character  that  is  seen  is  clearly 
defined,  the  imaginary  characters  that  appear  to  him  are  suggested 
or  sketched  lightly,  as  if  they  stood  in  a  half  light  while  the  cen- 
tral figure  of  the  picture  stood  in  the  full  sunlight.  This  method 
of  telling  a  story  is  highly  imaginative,  subtle,  delicate  and  inter- 
esting. The  listener  hears  the  echo  of  many  voices  in  one  voice. 
He  sees  the  effect  of  circumstances  and  events  concentrated  upon  a 
single  character.  The  interest  is  centered  on  the  one  mind  and 
heart  that  is  laid  bare  unconsciously,  as  it  were,  before  the  spee- 
dy 


4  WERNER'S  READINGS    AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  32. 

tator.  The  story  is  of  necessity  intensely  personal.  The  experi- 
ence of  the  hero  or  the  heroine  is  vividly  portrayed,  because  there 
is  no  other  visible  character  to  distract  the  attention  or  divide  the 
interest. 

Naturally  enough,  the  giving  of  this  form  of  platform  story 
or  monologue  is  far  more  difficult  than  any  reading  or  recitation. 
It  is  not  read  or  told.  It  is  lived  and  acted,  precisely  as  a  play.  It 
is  an  impressionist  play  and  yet  free  from  the  cost  and  trouble  of 
a  dramatic  performance.  It  is  a  ^tory  acted  by  one  performer,  a 
realistic  experience  of  a  human  hi?st  made  visible  and  enhanced 
by  all  the  art  of  modern  fczmdlvc  literature. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Abbie's    Accounts. — Tudor    Jenks     110 

After  the  Ball:     Her   Reflections.— Mel.   B.  Spurr 126 

After  the  Ball:     His  Reflections— Mel.  B.  Spurr 130 

Angel    Child.— Dorothy    Dix    169 

As  Jimmie  Sees  It. — Charles   C.  Jones    182 

At  the  "Boaer"  Counter. — J.  L.  Harbour 178 

At  the   Box-Office. — Elsie   Livermore    139 

Aunt  Sophronia  Tabor  at  the  Opera. — Ar.  by  Elise  West 42 

Author's   Reading  in   Simpkinville. — Ruth   McEnery   Stuart 175 

Besetting  Sin. — Edmund  Vance   Cooke    167 

Betsey. — Ar.  by  Lucy  Hayes  MacQueen  54 

Betty  Botter's   Batter   85 

"Bill   Thay."— Mary  Tucker   Magill    147 

Billy  the   Hermit. — Ruth    Edwards    44 

Christmas  Greens    35 

Christopher  Columbus.— Gazzoletti   22 

Colored   Laundress's   Diplomacy. — Alice   R.    Forsythe    185 

Comfortable  Corner. — Ar.  by  Lucy  Hayes  MacQueen   103 

Crushed  Tragedian. — Ed.  L.  McDowell   39 

Dawson's   Woman. — W.    Miller    93 

Deceitfulness  of  Man    98 

Deposed    68 

Florentine  Juliet. — Su?an   Coolidge   75 

He  Wanted  Ivory  Soap. — Charles  Battell  Loomis   163 

Her  First  Recital.— Anna  M.  Philley  17 

How  Uncle  Mose  Counts. — Ar.  by  Stanley  Schell 107 

I  and  My  Father-in-Law. — Harriet  L.  Pemberton  64 

If  I  Can  Be  By  Her.— Ben.  King  ..." 138 

I'm  Little,  but  I'm  Spunky  125 

Introduction. — Anna  Warren   Story    134 

Jack's  Second  Trial. — Roy  Farrell  Green  63 

Jimmy  Brown's  Prompt  Obedience. — W.  L.  Alden 28 

John's  Pajamas. — Stanley  Schell   173 

Keep  A-Goin'. — Frank  L.  Stanton  115 

Laughing  and  Crying. — G.  A.  Landrum  73 

Little  Friend  in  the  Mirror. — Anna  M.  Philley   90 

Little   Mother's  Trials.— Bessie   B.   McClure    27 

Long  Ago    150 

Lost  and  Found 16 

Werner's   Readings  No   32 — page   5 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Love  in  Lent 109 

Mean  Little  Torment. — Charles  E.  Baer  . 144 

'Member 30 

Minister  Comes  to  Tea 143 

Mr.  Dooley  on  a  Night  in  the  Country. — Finley  P.  Dunne 171 

My  Lover  Who  Loved  Me  Last  Spring. — Dollie  Denton 119 

Perplexed '. 102 

Piano-Tuner. — Ar.  by  Lucy  Hayes  MacQueen   116 

Pleasure  Exertion. — Marietta  Holley  155 

Postponed. — Charles  E.  Baer 153 

Pressed  for  Time. — Charles  De  Sivry  82 

Ready  for  a  Kiss  89 

Silver  Vedding  183 

"Studying  German." — Sarah  E.  Pittman  145 

Stuttering  Lover. — Fred  Emerson  Brooks    34 

Sub  Rosa.— Edith  F.  A.  U.  Painton 187 

Taken  by  Surprise. — Metta  Victoria  Victor  86 

Taking  an  Elevator , 123 

That  Little  Dog.— James  Whitcomb  Riley 161 

Tom  Fay's  Soliloquy. — Fanny  Fern  61 

Waiter. — Gertrude  F.   Lynch    11 

Welcome    149 

What  Monologue  Is. — Charles  Barnard 2 

When  Dad  Enjoyed  Himself  69 

When  Greek  Meets  Greek   132 

When  Pa  Gets  Sick  137 

When  Pa  Was  a  Boy.— S.  E.  Kiser  152 

When  Papa's  Sick. — Joe  Lincoln   136 

When  the  Minister  Came  to  Tea. — Juliet  Wilbor  Tompkins 141 

Why  the  Dog's  Tail  Was  Skinned.— Ar.  by  Stanley  Schell 31 

Woman's  Vengeance. — Thomas  F.  Wilford 49 


"Werner's  Readings  No.    32 — page   6 


INDEX  TO  AUTHORS 


PAGE 

Alden,  W.  L 28 

Baer,  Charles  E 144,  153 

Barnard,  Charles   2 

Brooks,  Fred  Emerson  ' 34 

Cooke,  Edmund  Vance  167 

Coolidge,  Susan  75 

De  Sivry,  Charles   82 

Denton,  Dollie    119 

Dix,    Dorothy    169 

Dunne,  Finley  P 171 

Edwards,  Ruth  44 

Fern,  Fanny   61 

Forsythe,  Alice  R 185 

Gazzoletti    22 

Green,  Roy  Farrell  63 

Harbour,  J.  L 178 

Holley,  Marietta   155 

Jenks,  Tudor  110 

Jones,  Charles  C 182 

King,  Ben  138 

Riser,  S.  E 152 

Landrum,  G.  A 73 

Lincoln,  Joe    136 

Livermore,  Elsie 139 

Loomis,  Charles  Battell   163 

Lynch,  Gertrude  F 11 

McClure,  Bessie  B 27 

McDowell,  Ed.   L 39 

Magill,  Mary  Tucker  147 

Miller,  W 93 

Painton,  Edith  F.  A.  U 187 

Pemberton,  Harriet  L 64 

Philley,  Anna  M 17,  90 

Pittman,   Sarah   E 1-15 

Riley,   James   Whitcomb    161 

Schell,  Stanley 1    "> 

Spurr,  Mel.  B 126,  130 

Stanton,  Frank  L 115 

Werner's    Readings   No.    32 — page    7 


INDEX  TO  AUTHORS. 

PAGE 

Story,  Anna  Warren 134 

Stuart,  Ruth  McEnery  175 

Tompkins,  Juliet  Wilbor 141 

Victor,  Metta  Victoria   86 

Wilford,  Thomas  F 49 


Werner's    Readings   No.    32 — page   8 


MONOLOGUES  FOR  MEN 

PAGE 

After  the  Ball:     His  Reflections.     Acting  musical  comedy 130 

As  Jimmie  Sees  It.     Boy  comedy  country  dialect  verse  recital....  182 

Besetting  Sin.     Boy  corned}'  country  dialect  verse  recital 167 

"Bill  Thay."     Boy  comedy  lisping  dialect  recital   147 

Billy  the  Hermit.     Pathos  Yankee  dialect  recital   44 

Christopher  Columbus.     Dramatic  verse 22 

Comfortable  Corner.     Comedy  recital   103 

Crushed  Tragedian.     Comedy  verse    39 

Dawson's  Woman.    Dramatic  pathos  Western  dialect  verse  recital  93 

He  Waited  Ivory  Soap.     Man  comedy  prose  monologue 163 

How  Uncle  Mose  Counts.    Acting  comedy  negro  dialect 107 

If  I   Can  Be  by   Her.     Serio-comic   romantic   stammering  dialect 

encore  verse    1 38 

Jimmy  Brown's  Prompt  Obedience.     Boy  comedy 28 

Laughing  and  Crying.     Acting  serio-comic  recital  73 

Long  Ago.     Acting  comedy  ISO 

Lost  and  Found.     Comedy  encore   16 

Mean  Little  Torment.     Boy  comedy  recital  144 

'Member.     Boy  serio-comic  child  dialect  verse  recital  30 

Minister  Comes  to  Tea.    Boy  comedy  encore  verse  recital 143 

Mr.  Dooley  on  a  Night  in  the  Country.    Man  comedy  Irish  dialect 

prose  monologue   171 

Perplexed.     Comedy  romantic  encore  verse  recital  102 

Piano-Tuner.     Acting  musical  comedy   • 116 

Postponed.     Acting  pathos  country  dialect  verse   153 

Pressed  for  Time.     Acting  serio-comic  82 

Ready  for  a  Kiss.  Boy  serio-comic  child  dialect  encore  verse  recital  89 

Silver  Vedding.     Man  comedy  German  dialect  prose  monologue..  183 

Stuttering  Lover.    Serio-comic  romantic  stuttering  dialect  verse...  34 

Sub   Rosa.     Man  serio-comic  prose  monologue   187 

That  Little  Dog.     Man  comedy  country  dialect  verse  monologue..  161 

Tom  Fay's  Soliloquy.    Acting  romantic  comedy 61 

Waiter.     Pathetic  French  dialect  11 

Welcome.    Boy  serio-comic  address  149 

When  Dad  Enjoyed  Himself.     Boy  comedy  recital 69 

When  Greek  Meets  Greek.    Acting  comedy  Yankee  dialect  encore 

verse    133 

When  Pa  Gets  Sick.   Boy  comedy  child  dialect  encore  verse  recital  137 

When  Pa  Was  a  Boy.     Boy  comedy  child  dialect  encore 152 

When  Papa's  Sick.    Boy  comedy  verse  recital  136 

Why  the  Dog's  Tail  Was  Skinned.  Comedy  French-Canadian  dialect  31 

■Werner's    Readings   No.    32 — page    9 


MONOLOGUES  FOR  WOMEN 


PAGE 

Abbie's  Accounts.     Acting  comedy  110 

After  the  Ball :  Her  Reflections.    Acting  musical  comedy 126 

Angel  Child.    Woman  comedy  prose  monologue 169 

At  the  "Boaer"  Counter.     Girl  comedy  prose  monologue 178 

At  the  Box-Office.     Acting  comedy  139 

Aunt   Sophronia   Tabor  at  the   Opera.      Yankee    dialect    comedy 

encore    42 

Author's  Reading  in  Simpkinville.    Woman  comedy  country  dialect 

prose  monologue  175 

Betsey.    Acting  comedy 54 

Christmas  Greens.       Acting  romantic   35 

Colored  Laundress's  Diplomacy.    Girl  comedy  negro  dialect  prose 

monologue    185 

Deceitfulness  of  Man.     Comedy  New  England  dialect  recital 98 

Deposed.     Girl  serio-comic  child  dialect  encore  verse  recital 68 

Florentine  Juliet.     Pathos  romantic  verse  recital  75 

Her  First  Recital.     Acting  comedy  romantic   17 

I  and  My  Father-in-Law.     Acting  comedy  64 

Introduction.     Acting  comedy    134 

Jack's  Second  Trial.     Romantic  encore  verse  recital   63 

John's  Pajamas.    Woman  comedy  monologue  173 

Laughing  and  Crying.     Acting  comedy  recital   73 

Little  Friend  in  the  Mirror.     Girl  acting  comedy  90 

Little  Mother's  Trials.     Girl  serio-comic  recital  27 

My   Lover  Who   Loved   Me    Last    Spring.    Girl    acting    romantic 

pathos    119 

Pleasure  Exertion.    Comedy  Yankee  dialect  recital  155 

"Studying  German."     Girl  acting  comedy  German  phrases 145 

Taken  by  Surprise.     Dramatic  acting  comedy   86 

Taking  an  Elevator.     Comedy  Yankee  dialect  recital   123 

When  the  Minister  Came  to  Tea.     Girl  serio-comic  verse  recital..  141 

Woman's  Vengeance.    Dramatic  tragic  verse  49 


Werner's  Headings  No.   32 — page   10 


Werner's 
Readings  and  Recitations 


No.  32. 


THE   WAITER. 


Romantic,  Pathetic  French  Dialect  Monologue  for  a  Man. 


GERTRUDE  F.  LYNCH. 


Character:     French  Waiter. 

Costume:    Waiter  Costume,  with  apron  and  towel. 

Stage-Setting:  Dining-room  interior  with  tables,  buffet,  etc.; 
palms  for  decoration  stand  about  the  room. 

Scene:  At  rise  of  curtain  waiter  is  discovered  busy  setting  and 
arranging  table.  After  a  second  of  work  he  turns  to  audience 
and  begins  to  talk.  Throughout  his  monologue  he  talks  and 
works  and  gestures. 

ZEY  say  zat  we  have  no  heart  an'  zat  all  we  care  for  ees  ze  tip, 
always  ze  tip.    Eet  ees  not  true.    Listen  ! 

You  see  zose  table  zere  by  ze  buffet?  Eet  ees  fine  lok  you  get 
from  zere  to  ze  rivair  w'ere  ze  boat  go  up  an'  down.  Over  zere 
ees  ze  hill  of  ze  Jersey,  an'  outside  ees  ze  fountain  stock'  wiz  trout, 
big  ones  from  ze — what  you  call  ze  mountain  ?  Oh.  yes,  merci,  ze 
Addyrohndak. 

Zose  are  my  table  an'  I  have  zem  now  long  time. 

Eet  was  monz's  ago  zey  came  for  firs'  time.  She  step  out  of  ze 
carriage  onto  ze  stone  an'  shake  her  dress  wiz  all  ze  littl'  frills, 


12  JVERNER'S  READINGS 

and  zen  she  turn  an'  look  at  heem,  oh,  wiz  such  a  smile ;  zen  she 
lok  'round  wiz  such  a  smile,  an'  he,  he  lok  so  prou'  an'  pleas'  like 
at  her.  I  zought  at  ze  commence  zey  were  ze  bride  and  groom, 
but  I  know  after  zey  were  not.  How  did  I  tell?  Oh,  but  you 
know  ze  waiter  can  always  tell,  an'  he  don'  know  how  eizer.  Zere 
ees  a  somezing,  a  somezing  quite  different,  oh,  quite.  No,  zey 
were  not  ze  man  an'  wife  at  all,  zey  were  jus'  frens,  w'at  you  call, 
ze  sweet  heart,  n'est-ce-pas? 

She  walk  so  light  an'  quick,  like  a  bird,  to  ze  balcon',  an'  she 
lok  about  an'  aroun',  and  zen  she  clap  her  littl'  hands  an'  she  say, 
wiz  her  pret'  smile,  "Let  us  sit  right  here,"  an'  she  point  out  zis 
place  an'  zat,  an'  zen  she  sees  the  fountain  an'  she  want  to  run 
right  out  an'  catch  her  trout  for  dinner,  an'  he  let  her.  She  lok 
so  like  the  pret'  girl  in  my  own  countree  zat  my  heart  warm  to  her 
an'  I  come  forward  wiz  my  bes'  manner.  He  say,  "How's  zis 
table,  Georg'  ?"  He  call  me  Georg',  but  zat  ees  riot  my  name. 
"Ees  zis  table  w'at  you  call  engage'?"  and  I  say,  "No,"  an'  pull 
out  ze  chairs,  an'  zen  he  hurr'  roun'  ze  table  to  help  her  take  off 
her  coat  for  fear  I  might  do  eet  firs'.  An'  of  course  I  stan'  back 
until  he  han'  it  to  me ;  zen  I  brush  eet  ver'  careful,  put  eet  across 
ze  back  of  ze  chair  an'  pull  up  ze  sleeve.  She  smile  at  me  sweet- 
like w'en  I  do  zat,  and  zen  she  smile  at  heem  an'  zen  she  smile 
all  aroun'.  He  give  her  ze  carte,  ze  menu,  you  know,  an'  she  order 
ze  dinner,  but  he  keep  order'n  more  zings  an'  more  zings,  an* 
she  try  to  stop  heem,  but  he  won'  be  stop,  an'  she  laugh  an'  call 
heem  names  in  fun  like,  you  know.  No,  zey  were  not  ze  man  an' 
wife,  you  see. 

He  was  so  big,  an'  dark  an'  handsome,  an'  wiz  such  a  gentle 
lok  w'en  hees  eye  res'  on  her.  Did  he  give  me  big  tip?  Yes,  he 
give  me  ver'  big  tip,  c'est  vrai,  but  eet  ees  not  always  ze  tip,  I  'sure 
you.  I  like  heem ;  he  so  magnifique,  you  call  eet,  an'  a  perfec' 
gen'leman,  an'  he  zink  so  much  of  her. 

Well,  zey  come  again  an'  again ;  sometime'  he  telephone  me : 
"Georg',"  he  say — he  call  me  Georg',  but  zat  ees  not  my  name — 
"have  ze  table  ready  at  such  time,"  an'  zey  always  come  ze  same 
way,  she  so  smilin'  an'  he  so  happy. 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.   32.  13 

Well,  one  night  I  rush  t'rough  ze  room  zere,  an'  I  see  a  carriage 
at  ze  stone  an'  she  gettin'  out  from  eet.  Eet  ees  not  ze  usual  night 
zey  come,  an'  he  have  not  telephone  me ;  an'  zere  ees  someone  else 
at  zeir  table,  an'  I  don'  know  w'at  ees  to  do.  I  lok  again  an'  she 
ees  smilin'  at  ze  someone,  but  eet  ees  not  ze  same  one ;  eet  ees 
anozer  man,  an'  zis  one  ees  light  an'  has  ze  curl'  hair  all  ovair  ze 
head.  She  lok  at  me  as  zough  she  nevair  see  me  again ;  you  know 
ze  way  a  woman  lok  w'en  she  come  to  ze  restauran'  wiz  anozer 
man  an'  has  ze  same  waiter.  I  don't  seem  to  see  her  eizer,  but  I 
have  a  sort  of  queer  feelin'  about  my  hear',  yes,  I  do ;  I  tol  you, 
eet  ees  not  always  ze  tip. 

Well,  she  come  right  up  to  her  ol'  table,  wiz  all  her  littl'  ruffles 
flyin'  an'  she  say  to  heem,  "I  like  zis  table  bes' ;  let  us  sit  right 
here,  ze  view  ees  so  much  ze  bettair,"  an'  she  point  eet  out  to 
heem  jus'  as  she  pointed  out  to  ze  ozer  man;  an'  she  laugh  an' 
laugh,  but  some  way  ze  laugh  don't  seem  to  come  from  ze  same 
place  as  eet  did  before.  An'  he  mor'  serious  zan  ze  ozer  man,  an' 
his  smile  don'  seem  to  come  from  ze  heart  eizer ;  an'  he  lok  'roun' 
at  ze  ozer  women,  w'ich  the  big,  dark  man  nevair  did. 

Well,  ze  people  who  sit  at  ze  table,  after  she  smile  at  zem,  zey 
say,  "We  mos'  t'rough;  jus'  a  minit;"  an'  w'ile  zey  wait  she  go 
out  to  ze  fountain  an'  catch  ze  trout.  You  know  we  keep  eet 
stock  so  full  all  you  have  to  do  ees  jus'  to  run  a  line  t'rough  an'  a 
fly,  an'  ze  fish  are  so  anxious  to  be  caught  zat  zey  jus'  jump  to 
ze  line,  you  know.  After  zey  catch  ze  fish,  zey  come  back  an'  he 
order  ze  dinner;  he  don'  ask  her  to  do  eet,  but  she  smile  jus'  ze 
same.  Did  he  give  me  tip,  too?  Oh,  yes,  he  give  me  tip,  too.  No, 
eet  was  not  quite  so  big,  but  I  don't  like  heem  anyway.  I  tol'  you 
eet  ees  not  always  ze  tip,  an'  I  have  to  take  eet  anyway.  W'at 
could  I  do?: — a  poor  waiter.  He  call  me  Georg',  too.  Strange 
how  all  ze  Americains  call  ze  waiter  Georg' ! 

Well,  zey  come  again,  an'  again,  an'  again,  never  have  any  ozer 
table ;  an'  she  always  smilin',  jus'  as  eef  she  hadn't  been  zere  ze 
night  before  perhaps,  wiz  ze  big,  dark,  handsome  man. 

You  believe  in  w'at  you  call  ze  fate  ?  I  do.  Eet  got  so  after  ze 
w'ile  zat  ze  secon'  man  wiz  ze  curl'  hair,  you  comprenez,  would 


14  WERNER'S  READINGS 

tol'  me  to  keep  ze  table  for  ze  next  week  ze  same  night,  always 
ze  same,  ze  Wednesday.  So,  w'en  ze  day  come,  I  turn  back  ze 
chair.  Zen  one  Wednesday  zis  ees  w'at  happen.  I  was  down  ze 
town,  way  down  on  an  erran'  you  call  eet.  I  was  walkin'  long 
brisk-like  w'en  I  see  heem,  my  tall,  fine,  handsome  fren',  ze  one 
she  come  wiz  firs',  you  recallez? 

I  bows  mos'  perlite,  but  he  don'  recognize  me  at  firs',  wiz  my 
hat  on  an'  my  apron  off,  an'  he  stop  an'  say,  in  zat  gentle  manner 
of  his,  "I  don'  seem  to  place  you,  my  man.  Were  have  I  seen 
you?"  An'  I  says  to  heem,  "W'y,  I'm  Georg'.  Don'  you  remem- 
ber— your  waiter?"  My  name  isn't  Georg',  but  I  call  mysel'  so 
to  recall  me  to  hees  remember.  He  laughs  an'  loks  happy-like, 
jus'  as  eef  seein'  me  had  made  heem  zink  of  her,  you  know.  He 
lok  jus'  like  he  lok  w'en  he  lok  at  her.  It  is  Wednesday,  I  tol'  you 
zat,  you  remember?  All  of  a  sudden  somezing  wizin  me  makes 
me  say  to  him :  "Eef  you  should  come  to-night  zere  are  some 
fresh  trout,  an'  I  would  lok  out  for  you  specially."  He  stop  an' 
zink  an'  he  say,  part  to  heemself,  part  to  me,  "Eet  ees  too  late  an' 
besides  she  always  go  to  her  aunt  to-night,  ze  Wednesdays."  Zen 
he  zink  again  quick  an'  he  speak  up :  "I'll  come,  an'  be  sure  to 
catch  me  a  nice,  big  fish  yourself."  Zen  he  say  "Good-bye."  Re- 
tainin'  fee  ?  W'at  you  call  zat  ?  Oh,  a  tip  ?  Yes,  he  give  me  a 
tip,  but  you  zink  I  keep  zat  tip.  I  tol'  you,  no.  I  give  eet  all  to  a 
beggar  on  ze  nex'  corner.  I  tol'  you  he  ees  a  fine  man,  too  fine  to 
be — well,  he  go  along,  an'  I  feel  like,  like  Pontius  Pilate,  was  it, 
who  betrayed  hees  Master  ?  Well,  some  one  of  zose  ol'  Bible 
characters,  anyway. 

He  came  in  an'  he  walk  right  to  his  ordinaire  table  an'  see  ze 
chair  turn  back.  An'  he  stop  an'  say,  disappoint'  like,  "Engage', 
Georg'  ?"  I  says,  an'  I  can  feel  myself  grow  w'ite,  "Yes,  sir,  eet 
ees  engage'  ev'ry  Wednesday."  An'  he  say  quick-like,  "W'at! 
Ev'ry  Wednesday,  Georg',  ze  same  ones?"  An'  I  say,  again, 
slowly,  "Yes,  sir,  ze  same  ones,  for  long  time  now,  sir." 

He  don'  suspect  an'  he  take  ze  table  facin'  ze  chair  she  always 
sit  in ;  an'  I  know  from  his  face  zat  he's  zinkih'  of  her  an'  zat  eet 
ees  jus'  a  gladness  to  lok  at  ze  place  an'  zink  he  see  her  zere,  like 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.    32.  15 

ze  nights  she  come  to  dine  wiz  heem.  I  feel  so  bad,  but  w'at  could 
I  do?  He  couldn't  go  on  an'  marry  girl  like  zat  who  smile  an' 
smile  an'  smile  at  all  alike.  He  couldn't,  could  he?  a  fine  man, 
like  zat. 

I  hurried,  for  I  did  want  to  have  heem  have  ze  big  trout  befor 
zey  came,  for  I  felt  sure  he  wouldn't  eat  anyzin'  afterwar.  He 
was  jus'  finishin'  w'en  zey  came  in,  she  leadin',  wiz  her  pret'  littl' 
ruffles  flyin'  in  ze  breeze,  an'  ze  fluf  zing  roun'  her  neck  an'  all 
her  littl'  gold  curl'  flyin',  too.  She  has  pink  cheeks,  like  ze  apple 
bloss'm  in  ze  springtime,  an'  littl'  tiny  hands  all  cover'  wiz 
sparkles ;  she  nevair  wear  ze  glove,  but  her  sleeve  lace  come  down 
an'  near  cover'  zem. 

She  don'  see  him  for  w'ile;  she  lok  out  at  ze  rivair  an'  she 
poin'  to  ze  sun  w'ich  sets  ovair  ze  Jersey  shore,  an'  she  laugh  right 
out  loud  at  a  littl'  tug  comin'  up  ze  Hudsohn  wiz  a  great  big  tow ; 
she  laughs  at  eet  again  an'  again,  an'  tell  heem  it  lok  like  someone 
zey  bot'  know — I  did  not  catch  ze  name  but  ees  no  matter.  Zen 
she  sit  down  an'  unwrap  ze  fluf  zin  from  her  t'roat,  an'  she  smile 
at  ze  man  wiz  ze  curl'  hair,  an'  zen  at  me,  an'  zen  'roun'  every- 
w'ere,  an'  zen — she  see  heem. 

She  went  w'ite  all  once.  I  t'ought  at  ze  firs'  she  was  goin'  to 
faint,  but  she  pluck'  game  zat  littl'  miss.  She  rally  an'  she  lok 
at  heem  an'  bow  gravely  as  eef  to  some  ordinaire  acquaintance, 
an'  zen  she  talk  an'  laugh  wiz  ze  man  wiz  ze  curl'  hair.  An'  all 
at  once  I  know  zat  she  don'  care  a  littl'  beet  for  heem,  but  zat  she 
do  care,  oh,  lots,  for  ze  big,  fine  man — my  f ren'.  How  I  know  ? 
Oh,  you  can't  tell  how  you  know  zose  zing,  you  jus'  know,  zat  ees 
all. 

How  he  take  eet?  Oh,  he  only  give  zat  one  long  lok,  an'  zen 
he  turn  his  face  away  a  littl'  an'  he  lok  out  on  ze  rivair  for  con- 
sider'bl'  minute.  Zen  he  beckon  me  an'  say,  "Georg',  get  me  a 
bottl'  of  wine,"  an'  I  run  to  get  eet ;  an'  he  sit  an'  drink  one  glass 
after  ze  ozer, — you  know  ze  way  a  man  does  w'en  he's  makin'  hees 
min'  up  to  somezing  zat  hurts  an'  he  ain't  quite  strong  enough  to 
do  eet  wizout  some,  w'at  you  call  ze  Dutch  courage.  He  drink 
ze  bottleful,  an'  she  watch  heem  out  of  ze  cornair  of  her  littl'  eye. 


16  WERNER'S  READINGS 

She  don'  eat — only  preten'  to ;  an'  her  face  don'  get  back  ze  color, 
no,  not  at  all;  eet  ees  jus'  pale  an'  peak  like  a  sick  chil'. 

But  ze  ozer  man,  ze  man  with  the  curl'  hair,  he  don'  notice  any- 
zing  but  hees  dinner.  He  eat,  eat,  an'  don'  see  zat  she  don'  hardly 
touch  hers.  An'  my  fren'  he  don'  lok  at  her  again  after  zat  firs' 
glance,  but  he  lok  on  ze  rivair  an'  ze  Jersey  way  till  ze  sun  set  an' 
ze  hill  begin  to  grow  big  an'  gray  an'  ze  twilight  creep  ovair  to 
our  side  of  ze  Hudsohn  and  zey  turn  on  ze  electric.  Zen  he  get 
up  slow',  like  an  ol'  man — I  tol'  you  how  quick  he  used  to  move — 
an'  he  take  up  his  hat,  an'  he  beckon  me  an'  say,  "Good-bye, 
Georg',"  an'  shake  hands  wiz  me.  Zen  he  go  wizout  one  glance 
back,  proud  like,  an'  eet  ees  ze  las'  time. 

Did  he  give  me  tip  ?  Yes,  he  give  me  big  tip,  a  five-dol'r,  but  do 
you  zink  I  spen'  eet?  No,  sir,  I  give  eet  to  my  church  the  nex' 
Sunday. 

Oh,  she?  Yes,  zey  come  a  few  time  more,  zen  zey  marry  an'  I 
don'  see  zem  for  long  time ;  zen  he  come  once  in  w'ile  alon',  an' 
once  she  come  wiz  heem,  but  she  don'  smile  no  more  an'  he  quite 
cross  to  her  'cause  she  don'  care  for  ze  ver'  expensive  dinner  he 
give  her. 


LOST  AND  FOUND. 


Characters  :  Mr.  Smith,  Speaker,  present ;  Mr.  Jones  sup- 
posed to  be  present. 

Scene:  On  the  street.  Enter  Mr.  Smith  and  Mr.  Jones, 
Smith  apparently  in  earnest  conversation  with  Mr.  Jones. 
Stops  at  stage  c.  and  begins  his  real  conversation. 

YOU  remember  that  very  handsome  watch  I ' lost  five  or  six 
years  ago  ?  You  do  ?  You  remember  how  I  looked  high  and 
low  for  it,  and  could  not  find  it  anywhere  ?  Was  my  search  diligent 
— exhaustive  ?  I  should  say  it  was.  Well,  yesterday,  I  put  on  an 
old  waistcoat  that  I  hadn't  worn  for  years,  and  what  do  you  think 
I  found  in  the  pocket?  My  watch?  I  thought  you'd  say  that, 
No— I  found  the  hole  that  I  must  have  lost  it  through, 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.   32.  17 

HER  FIRST   RECITAL. 


Humorous  and  Romantic  Monologue  for  a  Woman. 


ANNA    M.    PHILLEY. 


^Written  expressly  for  this  book. 


Characters:  Dorothy,  Speaker  present;  Mr.  Rose,  Mr.  Harry 
Rose  and  Miss  Phelps,  supposed  to  be  present. 

Costume  :   Outdoor  costume. 

Scene  :      Music   room,    interior.      Enter   Dorothy,   looking   all 
fagged  out. 

OH,  dear  me,  I  never  was  so  tired  in  all  my  life  !  I'm  just  dead 
tired,  as  papa  says,  and  as  hungry  as  a  bear !  I'm  going  to 
get  off  my  things  and  make  a  bee  line  for  the  pantry.  Why,  what 
is  this  ?  A  note  addressed  to  me !  Why,  that  looks  like  Miss 
Phelps's  writing.  Oh !  I  wonder  if  she  has  gotten  me  that  ap- 
pointment to  give  a  recital !  I'm  so  excited  and  nervous  I  can 
hardly  get  the  thing  open.     [Reads.] 

"My  Dear  Dorothy:"  [Looking  at  signature.]  Yes,  Mary  B. 
Phelps,  that's  she.  "I  have  succeeded  in  our  little  scheme.  You 
are  to  give  a  recital  all  by  yourself  at  Highland  Park,  next  Fri- 
day evening,  June  20th,  at  Music  Hall,  under  the  auspices  of  the 
High  School  Club.  Mr.  Harry  Rose,  who  has  come  here  recently 
from  three  years'  study  abroad,  a  violinist,  will  furnish  two 
violin  solos  to  relieve  you.  Aside  from  this,  you  will  be  responsi- 
ble for  the  entire  program.  They  have  agreed  to  pay  you  five 
dollars  and  expenses.  Come  to  my  studio  this  evening  at  7  ^o/ 
and  I  will  tell  you  more  about  it.  In  the  meantime  practice  your 
strong  selection,  'As  the  Moon  Rose,'  and  the  pantomime,  'Comin' 
thro'  the  Rye.'  In  haste  vours, 

"Mary  B.  Phelps." 

[Dances  about  room.]  Oh!  isn't  this  glorious!  Miss  Dorothy 
Dunlap  will  give  a  recital.    Ahem !  and  I'm  going  to  get  five  dol- 


[8  WERNER'S  READINGS 

lars.  Well,  five  dollars  is  not  to  be  sneezed  at.  I  can  get  a  good 
many  things  with  five  dollars.  [Refers  to  note  again.']  Oh!  Miss 
Phelps,  you're  an  old  darling!  Let  me  see  what  she  says  about 
that  young  man.  [Reads.]  "Mr.  Harry  Rose,  violinist,  will  fur- 
nish"— Harry  Rose — Harry  is  rather  a  common  name — wonder 
why  he  don't  have  people  call  him  Henry ;  that's  more  dignified, 
and  I  like  the  name  better,  too ;  and  "Rose"  sounds  girlish.  Let's 
see — what  was  it  Shakespeare  said  about  a  name?  [Knocks  on 
forehead.]  Oh,  yes,  "What's  in  a  name,  a  rose  by  any  other  name 
would  smell  as  sweet."  Well,  I  hope  he's  a  genius  and  not  a 
dandy  dude.  Now,  what  was  I  to  practice?  [Reads  again.] 
"Practice  your  strong  selection,  'As  the  Moon  Rose,'  and  your 
pantomime,  'Comiri'  thro'  the  Rye.'  "  But  I  must  tell  mamma 
about  the  good  news  first.  [Calling  tip  stairs.]  Mamma! 
Mamma !  I've  got  my  engagement !  Why,  over  to  Highland 
Park.  Yes,  I'm  to  receive  five  dollars.  Next  Friday  evening. 
Yes,  I'm  going  to  practice .  right  away.  No,  I'll  practice  right 
here  in  the  library.  [To  herself.]  Well,  I  must  get  off  my  things 
and  work  hard  now  for  an  hour  at  least.  [Takes  off  wraps  while 
talking.]  My!  won't  Barbara  Burris  be  jealous?  She's  been  tak- 
ing lessons  of  Miss  Phelps  longer  than  I  have.  She'll  be  as 
"jealous  as  a  barbary  cock  pigeon  over  his  hen,"  as  Rosalind  said. 
[Picks  up  note  again  mumbling.]  Harry  Rose — 'Harry  Rose — 
I  can't  help  wondering  what  sort  of  a  fellow  you  are,  Mr.  Harry. 
I'd  give  a  good  deal  to  know  whether  you  are  married  or  single! 
Well,  I  must  settle  down  to  biz !  I  wonder  how  Dorothy  Dunlap 
looks,  now  she's  booked  for  a  recital.  [Looks  in  hand-mirror.] 
Hello  !  Miss  Dorothy !  same  old  girl,  aren't  you  ?  You  must  primp 
up  a  little,  now  that  you've  an  engagement  as  a  reader.  You're 
not  what  folks  call  pretty,  but  you  have  brains,  and  brains  count 
for  more  than  beauty  any  day,  but  I  wish  I  were  beautiful,  just 
the  same.  ''I  think  a  little  dash  of  Mennen's  might  help  you  out 
somewhat.  You  must  make  a  good  impression  on  young  Harry, 
or  maybe  he's  old  Harry — how  do  I  know  ?  Anyway,  first  impres- 
sions are  the  most  enduring,  so  we'll  do  our  best,  won't  we,  "Dear 
Daughter  Dorothy,"  as  mamma  says? 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.   32.  19 

Now  for  "As  the  Moon  Rose."  [Practices  a  couple  of  lines;* 
then  suddenly  stops  and  says:}  I  wonder  how  I  look  when  I'm 
speaking — there's  a  whole  lot  in  the  way  one  looks.  [Thinking.] 
\  I  have  it — There !  [Places  mirror  on  chair  in  front  of  her,  then 
makes  an  elaborate  bow.]  Oh!  I've  got  a  stitch  in  my  side,  em! 
how  it  hurts  !  Dear  me !  but  wouldn't  it  be  awful  to  get  a  pain  like 
that  right  on  the  stage  before  a  crowd  of  people?  I  guess  I'll 
make  a  more  modest  bow.  I  think  it  looks  better,  anyway.  Let's 
see,  where  was  I  ?  Oh,  yes.  [Goes  on  with  selection.  Then  stops 
suddenly.]  I  don't  believe  I  need  as  much  practice  on  that  as  I 
do  on  the  pantomime.  I'm  going  to  practice  that  awhile.  Dear 
me!  but  I'm  hungry;  but  I  haven't  time  to  eat;  I  can  chew  gum, 
though,  and  pantomime  at  the  same  time.  "Kill  two  birds  with 
one  stone."  What  did  I  do  with  my  gum  last  night?  [Hunts 
around  edge  of  table  and  finally  finds  gum  in  handkerchief ;  makes 
great  ado  getting  it  limbered  up;  then  hums  melody  of  "Comin 
thro'  the  Rye,"  pantomiming  as  she  hums,  and  chewing  gum  rap- 
idly and  audibly.  Just  as  she  finishes  the  chorus  the  telephone 
bell  rings.] 

There  goes  the  telephone !  I  wonder  what's  wanted  ?  [Anszvers 
'phone.]  Hello!  Yes,  oh,  yes;  oh,  Miss  Phelps,  you're  a  darling! 
Oh,  I  thought  you  wanted  me  to  come  to  your  studio.  You've 
decided  'twould  be  better  to  come  here  instead?  All  right.  Beg 
pardon.  Oh,  are  you?  And  you're  going  to  bring  the  violinist 
with  you  ?  When  will  you  come  ?  Oh,  right  away ;  dear  me ! 
Oh,  yes,  yes,  it's  all  right,  certainly,  only  I'm  just  a  little  excited, 
that's  all.    Sure,  it's  all  right.    Good  bye !   Good  bye ! 

[Picks  up  mirror  and  talks  to  herself.]  Now,  Miss  Dorothy, 
do  your  best,  your  level  best  to  make  a  good  impression.  [Fixes 
hair,  powders  face.]  You're  going  to  meet  a  man,  an  artist,  a 
genius,  maybe  your  fate,  so  beware ! 

[Sadly.]  But  I  don't  believe  I'll  ever  love  any  one  as  I  did 
— my !  I  thought  I  heard  some  one  coming.  I  s'pose  I  may  ex- 
pect them  now  any  minute.  Bother  !  if  I  could  just  make  my  heart 
stop  thumping  so  loudly.     I  wonder  if  I've  got  heart  disease.     I 

*  See  bottom  o'.  pag    s    fo  lines  from  '  A.  the  M001-  Rose.' 


2o  WERNER'S  READINGS 

know  it  isn't  sentiment  or  fear — I'm  just  a  little  nervous,  that's 
all.  I'm  going  to  turn  down  the  gas  real  low  and  sit  here  in  this 
window  and  watch.  I'll  have  the  advantage  of  them  then ;  I  can 
see  them  but  they  can't  see  me.  Ah,  ha,  Master  Harry,  I'll  catch 
the  first  glimpse. 

[Sits  near  window  straining  eyes,  still  chewing  gum.]  Dear 
me !  I  must  hide  this  gum,  or  Miss  Phelps  will  be  shocked ;  she 
thinks  it  unladylike  to  chew  gum.  I  believe  they  are  now  coming 
down  the  walk.  Yes,  that's  Miss  Phelps ;  I  know  her  gait.  My, 
but  he's  tall  and  handsome  !  Oh,  they're  going  on.  Oh,  now  I  see ; 
it's  Dr.  Mayfair  and  his  mother.  I  never  thought  she  and  Miss 
Phelps  were  a  bit  alike  before.  Well,  if  I've  got  to  wait  I'll  im- 
prove the  time.  [Chews  gum  nervously;  then  calls  tip  stairs.] 
Yes,  mother,  I'm  practicing.  [Aside.]  Practicing  chewing. 
[Looks  out  again.] 

There !  that  is  surely  Miss  Phelps.  Yes,  it  is,  and  they're  com- 
ing right  up  the  steps.  Why,  he  walks  a  little  lame.  Oh,  dear, 
I  must  get  rid  of  this  gum.  [Dashes  round  room,  turns  on  gas, 
and  stands  in  front  of  door.]  Now,  ring  the  bell.  Why  don't 
you  ring  ?  I'll  peep  through  the  key-hole.  [Just  as  she  does  this 
the  bell  rings"]  Whee !  but  that's  hard  on  ear-drums.  [Opens 
door.]  Good  morning,  Miss  Phelps,  and  this  is  Mr.  Rose? 
[Aside.]  My!  what  an  old  duffer!  Old  enough  to  be  my  grand- 
father. I'm  delighted  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Rose.  [Aside.]  But 
would  have  been  more  delighted  were  you  forty  years  younger. 
Here,  have  this  chair,  Mr.  Rose ;  and  Miss  Phelps,  please  make 
^yourself  at  home.  Where  is  your  violin,  Mr.  Rose?  Oh!  I  sup- 
posed you  were  the  gentleman  who  was  to  play  for  me.     Indeed ! 

Your  son — Oh,  I'm  so  glad — I  mean — or — a Beg  pardon  ? 

No,  Miss  Phelps,  my  mother  is  not  well;  she  is  suffering  with 
a  sprained  ankle.  Oh,  certainly  you  may  see  her  if  you  like ;  she 
is  up  stairs  in  the  sitting-room.  Oh,  Mr.  Rose  desires  to  see 
her  ?  You  and  my  mother  old  school-mates  ?  Is  it  possible  ?  Why, 
how  very  funny. 

[Calling  up  stairs.]  Mamma!  an  old  friend  of  yours  is  coming 
up  to  see  you — an  old  school-mate.     He  knew  you  in  England. 


le  c 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.    32. 


Wait  till  he  comes,  and  see  if  you  know  him.  Go  right  up,  Mr. 
Rose;  it  will  be  all  right.  [Pantomime  watching  Mr.  Rose  de- 
part. ] 

Say,  Miss  Phelps,  when  is  the  young  man  coming?  Why,  that 
must  be  he  now.  You  answer  the  bell ;  I'm  so  excited  and  ner- 
vous. I'll  slip  into,  the  back  parlor  until  I  get  my  breath.  [Picks 
up  mirror  and  pozvder  as  she  goes.]  Now,  Dorothy  Dunlap,  be- 
have yourself.  You  are  acting  like  a  great  simpleton,  and  here 
you  are  a  young  woman  almost  nineteen,  and  booked  for  a  re- 
cital !  I'm  ashamed  of  you.  There  he  comes,  now.  Why,  how 
familiar  his  step  sounds.  I  could  almost  swear  it  was  Henry 
St.  Clair's  step.  Til  just  peep  through  these  curtains  and  see  what 
sort  of  a  looking  fellow  he  is. 

[Dashing  out  in  great  surprise.]  Why,  Henry  St.  Clair!  What 
are  you  doing  here  ?  I  thought  you  were  in  Europe  !  Let  me  go, 
sir;  don't  you  remember  how  we  parted  just  three  years  ago?  I 
said  then  I'd  never  speak  to  you  again,  and  I  wouldn't  if— well, 
if  I  had  not  been  so  excited.  Besides,  I'm  expecting  a  Mr.  Harry 
Rose  here  any  minute  to You  are  Harry  Rose?  I  don't  be- 
lieve it.  Well,  explain  yourself,  if  you  can.  Oh,  I  see ;  how  sad, 
how  very  sad ;  and  your  parents  both  died  within  a  month,  and 
this  Mr.  Rose  adopted  you,  and  educated  you  in  music?  And 
what  brought  you  here?  A  visit  to  the  homeland,  and  with  me? 
Can  we  be  friends  again  ?  Well,  Henry,  since  you've  come  so  far, 
and  confessed  so  much,  we  will  be  friends — until,  well,  until  after 
the  recital,  at  any  rate.  Miss  Phelps!  [Calling.]  Why,  where 
has  she  gone  ?  I  presume  she  thought  war  was  declared  and  she'd 
better  get  out  of  the  way  of  the  shots.  Oh,  Miss  Phelps !  come 
back !  The  war  is  over  and  the  coast  is  clear.  Yes,  we've  made 
up  and  it's  time  for  our  rehearsal  now.     Come  on.* 

*"Now  upon  this  June  day  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  1780,  the  patriots 
were  gathered  outside  the  tavern  door — the  witch-girl  Judith  apart  from 
the  rest,  her  black  horse  'Fonso  tugging  impatiently  at  her  arm — and 
Grandame  Pettibone's  voice  rose  shrilly  above  the  babble.  'Hiram  won't 
be  back  to-night,  I  guess,  and  he's  already  three  days  overdue.  It's  pretty 
dangerous  work,  carrying  Washington's  messages,  but  he's  bound  to  get 
along  in  the  world,  Hiram  is ;  and  that  witch-girl  Judith  fools  herself  id 
thinking  the  lad  cares  for  her.  Why,  I  know  he's  another  sweetheart  in 
Boston  town.'    The  girl  took  a  step  forward  to  answer  back  hotly,  then" 


2a  WERNER'S  READINGS 

CHRISTOPHER   COLUMBUS. 


Dramatic  Monologue  in  Verse  for  a  Man. 


TRANSLATED   FROM    THE   ITALIAN   OF   GAZZOLETTI   BY   ADAM   RONDEL. 


[The  original  of  the  following  poem  was  recited  before  crowded  audi- 
ences by  the  elder  Salvini  on  several  occasions  during  his  American  tour. 
Attired  in  the  costume  of  this  "hero  of  two  worlds,"  his  powerful  form 
bent  as  though  with  the  weight  of  years  and  of  the  heavy  chains  that 
bound  his  feet  and  hands,  the  great  tragedian  moved  his  hearers  to  the 
highest  pitch  of  enthusiasm.  The  poem  was  given  to  the  translator  by 
Salvini's  private  secretary  and  prompter,  who  venerates  the  worn  little 
pamphlet  for  the  many  associations  it  enfolds  of  this  great  master  of  "the 
greatest  of  all  arts." — A.  R.] 


Character  :    Columbus. 

Costume:     Half-worn  costume  following  style  pictured  in  all 
illustrations  of  Columbus. 

Scene:    Interior  of  a  cell.     Columbus  standing  weighted  with 
chains. 


FORLORN,  alone  and  old— I  die.    Alas ! 
My  life,  in  hardships  passed,  in  sorrow  ends. 
But  heaven  vouchsafed  to  me  'midst  all  my  woes 
One  joy  so  great,  that  every  grief  because 
Of  it  seemed  a  delight;  for  sending  forth 
A  ray  of  His  eternal  light  upon 
The  world,  God  turned  to  Italy  and  spoke 
In  graciousness  to  me :   "O  fearless  one, 
Go  find  a  pathway  toward  the  setting  sun." 

And  opening  my  eyes  upon  the  West, 

I  saw  what  seemed  a  new  world  rising  up 

From  out  the  waves.     Wide-reaching  forest  lands 

Of  trees  unknown ;  great  rivers ;  plains  immense ; 

And  various  beasts;  and  birds  of  plumage  rare; 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.    32.  23 

And  all  the  luscious  fruits  that  India  yields, 
The  envy  and  desire  of  Northern  lands; 
The  seas  were  rich  with  pearl,  the  hills  with  gold. 
"Go  forth,  return  and  tell  what  thou  hast  seen," 
I  heard  the  voice  speak  in  my  ear.    Alas ! 
I  have  no  wealth ;  no  sail  spreads  out  at  my 
Command — and  nothing  have  I  but  a  thought. 

I  brought  my  heavenly  inspiration  to 

The  crowned  ones  of  the  earth  and  asked  of  them 

A  little  of  their  wealth.    Alas  !  alas  ! 

Through  long  and  weary  years  I  plead  with  them, 

But  they  derided  me,  misunderstood. 

I  hardly  understood  myself — I  saw. 

Pray  bring  me  closer  to  the  casement  there. 

Take  not  from  my  unhappy,  hung'ring  eyes 

The  sight  of  the  bright  sea — the  sea,  a  short 

While  since,  so  infinite ;  no  longer  so, 

Since  I  with  new-found  shores  have  shut  it  in. 

The  sea,  the  sea,  my  kingdom  and  my  friend, 

My  glory  and  the  hope  of  my  best  years ! 

Once  more  let  me  salute  it,  then  unfurl 

The  sails :  I'll  voyage  on  to  find  that  shore 

Uncertain  and  unknown,  more   distant   far, 

Of  which  no  tidings  may  I  bring  to  you. 

So  smooth  it  was,  so  joyous  and  so  blue, 
When  fearless  first  I  cast  myself  upon 
Its  open,  sunlit,  pulsing  breast,  and  saw 
What  eye  of  man  had  never  seen.    With  dire 
And  fearful  terrors  and  with  monsters  dread 
Man's  superstition  filled  it.     /  feared  not — 
Nor  hesitated  long.     Fly  on,  my  bark! 
And  if  my  heart  beat  high,  it  was  with  dread 
Lest  they,  my  tim'rous  men  should  courage  lack 
To  bear  our  purpose  to  its  perfecting. 


24  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Fly  on,  my  bark !   No  hostile  omens  shall 
Thy  winged  course  arrest:  land  lies  beyond — 
I  see  it  in  my  swift,  out-running  thought. 
Faint-hearted  ones,  take  courage!    Land  is  near! 
And  soon  our  bark  will  touch  the  beauteous  shore. 
Heaven  aids  our  daring  enterprise  with  winds 
Propitious  and  with  soft,  caressing  waves. 

Day  follows  weary  day  till  months  are  gone 

And  still  no  trace  of  land  is  visible; 

But  sky  and  sea  around  us  and  above, 

While  pallid  faces  tell  all  hope  is  lost. 

And  I,  what  can  I  do?   Must  I  with  my 

Sparse  gold  their  dull  souls  bribe?    They'll  heed  naught  else, 

New  stars  are  leading  me  on  unknown  seas. 

"Give  me  but  three  days  more,  and  then,  if  still 

'Tis  vain  we  hope — I'll  yield  me  up  to  you." 

Behold  from  out  the  west  great  clouds  of  birds 

In  rapid  flight. 

Sea-weed  and  curious  leaves  and  plants  adrift 

From  stranger  shores. 

Breaks  through  the  eternal  silence  of  the  sky 

A  fervent  cry : 

"The  land!   the  land!" — Oh,  who  can  tell  my  joy? 

The  land  at  last ! 

A  light  descried  across  the  misty  night 

Confirms  our  hope : 

And  hands,  are  strong  and  hearts  are  light  once  more 

As  on  we  go. 

The  bright  day  comes  and  crimson  is  the  sea. 

Was  it  a  dream  ? 

Ah,  no,  it  lies  within  our  sight  at  last — 

The  longed-for  land ! 

A  beauteous  maid  bedecked  in  green  and  gold 

On  billowy  couch, 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.   32.  2$ 

Sparkling  and  fair  to  see,  a  guerdon  paid 

To  valorous  knight; 

A  bride  as  fair  as  hope — more  fair  than  I 

Had  dared  conceive. 

The  sun  creeps  up — the  lurking  shadows  flee — 

And  lo !  she  laughs 

From  very  joy  of  life. 

Now  furl  the  sail — let  down  the  boats,  O  land ! 

At  length  I  kiss  thy  longed-for  shores ;  at  last, 

O  heavenly  inspiration  not  in  vain 

Believed  in,  I  my  greeting  bring  to  thee ! 


The  great  work  is  completed.     Am  not  I 
Lord  of  my  lands  and  of  the  sea  ?  But  where 
My  subjects  and  my  palaces,  my  gems, 
My  laurels,  and,  O  king,  thy  promises? 

Within  thy  palace,  the  Alhambra,  throned—* 

Granada,  vanquished,  lying  at  thy  feet — 

A  wandering  Italian  came  to  thee, 

A  man  oppressed  beneath  the  burden  of 

His  thoughts  and  gray  before  his  time.    A  tirecl 

And  sickly  child  clung  to  his  hand.     Grandees 

And  princes  high  in  rank  and  captains  brave 

Stood  there  'mid  all  the  splendor  ancient  Spain 

Could  boast.     What  said  to  thee,  O  Ferdinand, 

The  unknown  Genoese?    "O  Sire,"  he  said, 

Nor  was  there  quiver  of  his  lip — "O  Sire, 

Fate  gave  thee  Aragon  and  love  Castile, 

And  war  the  kingdom  of  the  Moors.     But  I 

Would  give  thee  more  than  fate,  or  love,  or  war, 

Than  Aragon,  Granada  or  Castile — 

Far  more — a  world !   I  went  and  I  returned. 

Unlooked  for  I  returned,  O  king,  with  gems 

And  gold  from  thy  new  kingdom,  won  without 


26  WERNER'S  READINGS 

The  shedding  of  a  drop  of  blood  or  sound 
Of  battle  cry.    And  when  I  proudly  showed 
The  proofs  of  my  discovery  to  thee, 
Thy  haughty  councillors  and  learned  men, 
Thou  saidst  to  these,  thy  courtiers :  "Genius  is 
A  spark  of  the  Divine — above  all  kings ! 
Uncover  in  its  presence,  O  Grandees 
Of  Spain!" 

Can  I  this  same  Columbus  be, 

Forgotten,  poor,  and  driven  from  place  to  place? 

Without  a  home,  where  he  may  even  die, — 

Is  he  discov'rer  of  the  world,  while  all 

Of  Europe  feasts  and  revels  in  the  gold 

Whose  sources  he  made  known? 

Oh,  do  not  tell 

Posterity  this  infamy,  nor  say 

That  these  old  arms  the  impress  bear  of  chains, 

Nor  that  I  lived  imprisoned  where  I  once 

Had  walked  a  conqueror.    O  cruel  Fate, 

If  it  was  written  in  thy  book  that  such 

A  service  should  be  paid  in  coin  so  poor, 

Then  God  be  thanked  that  such  reward  came  not 

From  Italy.     Ah,  well !  'tis  done,  'tis  done ! 

Behold  the  fair  land  reeks  and  smokes  with  blood ! 

Oh,  horrid  crimes !    Lo !  swords  are  buried  deep 

In  brothers'  hearts  defenceless.     .     .     .     Such  was  not 

Columbus'  thought  when  he  became  your  guide, 

Beneath  the  banner  of  the  Holy  Cross 

Which  ye  have  so  defiled  with  massacres 

And  made  the  very  pretext  for  your  sin. 

What  passion  moves  you,  men,  that  gold  does  not 

Suffice — that  ye  must  have  the  warm  life-blood 

Of  brother  men  ?   If  this  be  valor,  what 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.    32.  27 

Is  cowardice  ?    Oh,  hide  the  vision  dread — 
The  pain  that  all  unwittingly  I've  caused. 

I  am  resigned.    O  sea !  the  sight  of  thee 

Brings  to  my  heart  remorse :  both  innocent, 

And  yet  accomplices  in  all  these  great 

Misfortunes.     Time  will  come  when  all  the  crime 

Beneath  the  dust  of  centuries  will  rest, 

And  from  this  new-found  world  will  come  at  last 

As  much  of  good  as  evil  came  at  first. 

And  then  my  name  by  unborn  races  will 

Be  blest — the  praise  more  glorious  because 

So  late.     I  die  content.     Columbus  will 

Be  known  in  every  clime  and  men  rise  up 

To  do  him  reverence. 


A  LITTLE  MOTHER'S  TRIALS. 


BESSIE  B.  McCLURE. 


[A  little  girl  with  infant  doll  in  her  lap,  one  in  a  cradle  and  others 
seated  on  chairs  or  couch.] 

OH,  dear !    I'm  in  such  trouble — 
Sophia's  sick  abed, 
And  Rosalind  is  dreadful  cross 

Because  she  bumped  her  head; 
Belle's  torn  her  nice  new  apron, 

The  naughty,  careless  child ! 
And  Rob  is  so  mischievous 

He  nearly  sets  me  wild : 
The  baby,  too,  is  teething, 

And  so,  of  course,  he  cries ; 
Dear  me !    It's  hard  to  manage 

A  familv  of  this  size. 


28  WERNER'S  READINGS 


JIMMY    BROWN'S    PROMPT    OBEDIENCE. 


Comedy  Monologue ,  for  a  Small  Boy. 


W.    L.    ALDEN. 


[Enter  Jimmy  Brown  in  hesitating  fashion,  shuffles  along, 
stops  and  looks  at  fingers,  then  talks  direct  to  audience.] 

I  HAVEN'T  been  able  to  write  anything  for  some  time.  I  don't 
mean  that  there  has  been  anything  the  matter  with  my  fingers 
so  that  I  couldn't  hold  a  pen ;  but  I  haven't  had  the  heart  to  write 
of  my  troubles.  Besides,  I  have  been  locked  up  for  a  whole  week 
in  the  spare  bedroom  on  bread  and  water,  and  just  a  little  hash 
or  something  like  that,  except  when  Sue  used  to  smuggle  in  cake 
and  pie  and  such  things,  and  I  haven't  had  any  penanink.  I  was 
going  to  write  a  novel  while  I  was  locked  up  by  pricking  my 
finger  and  writing  in  blood  with  a  pin  on  my  shirt ;  but  you  can't 
write  hardly  anything  that  way,  and  I  don't  believe  all  those 
stories  of  conspirators  who  wrote  dreadful  promises  to  do  all 
sorts  of  things  in  their  blood.  Before  I  could  write  two  little 
words  my  finger  stopped  bleeding,  and  I  wasn't  going  to  keep 
on  pricking  myself  every  few  minutes ;  besides,  it  won't  do  to  use 
all  your  blood  up  that  way.  There  was  once  a  boy  who  cut  him- 
self awful  in  the  leg  with  a  knife,  and  he  bled  to  death  for  five  or 
six  hours,  and  when  he  got  through  he  wasn't  any  thicker  than 
a  newspaper,  and  rattled  when  his  friends  picked  him  up  just  like 
the  morning  newspaper  does  when  father  turns  it  inside  out.  Mr. 
Travers  told  me  about  him,  and  said  this  was  a  warning  against 
bleeding  to  death. 

Of  course  you'll  say  I  must  have  been  doing  something  dread- 
fully wrong,  but  I  don't  think  I  have ;  and  even  if  I  had,  I'll  leave 
it  to  anybody  if  Aunt  Eliza  isn't  enough  to  provoke  a  whole  com- 
pany of  saints.  The  truth  is,  I  got  into  trouble  this  time  just 
through  obeying  promptly  as  soon  as  I  was  spoken  to.     I'd  like 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.    32.  29 

to  know  if  that  was  anything  wrong.  Oh,  I'm  not  a  bit  sulky, 
and  I  am  always  ready  to  admit  I've  done  wrong  when  I  really 
have;  but  this  time  I  tried  to  do  my  very  best  and  obey  my  dear 
mother  promptly,  and  the  consequence  was  that  I  was  shut  up  for 
a  week,  besides  other  things  too  painful  to  mention.  This  world 
is  a  fleeting  show,  as  our  minister  says,  and  I  sometimes  feel  that 
it  isn't  worth  the  price  of  admission. 

Aunt  Eliza  is  one  of  those  women  that  always  know  everything, 
and  know  that  nobody  else  knows  anything,  particularly  us  men. 
She  was  visiting  us,  and  finding  fault  with  everybody,  and  con- 
stantly saying  that  men  were  a  nuisance  in  a  house  and  why  didn't 
mother  make  father  mend  chairs  and  whitewash  the  ceiling  and 
what  do  you  let  that  great  lazy  boy  waste  all  his  time  for  ?  There 
was  a  little  spot  in  the  roof  where  it  leaked  when  it  rained,  and 
Aunt  Eliza  said  to  father,  "Why  don't  you  have  energy  enough 
to  get  up  on  the  roof  and  see  where  that  leak  is?  I  would  if  I 
was  a  man — thank  goodness  I  ain't."  So  father  said,  "You'd 
better  do  it  yourself,  Eliza."  And  she  said,  "I  will  this  very 
day." 

So  after  breakfast  Aunt  Eliza  asked  me  to  show  her  where  the 
scuttle  was.  We  always  kept  it  open  for  fresh  air,  except  when 
it  rained,  and  she  crawled  up  through  it  and  got  on  the  roof.  Just 
then  mother  called  me,  and  said  it  was  going  to  rain,  and  I  must 
close  the  scuttle.  I  began  to  tell  her  that  Aunt  Eliza  was  on  the 
roof,  but  she  wouldn't  listen,  and  said,  "Do  as  I  tell  you  this  in- 
stant, without  any  words;  why  can't  you  obey  promptly?"  So  I 
obeyed  as  prompt  as  I  could,  and  shut  the  scuttle  and  fastened  it, 
and  then  went  down-stairs,  and  looked  out  to  see  the  shower  come 
up. 

It  was  a  tremendous  shower,  and  it  struck  us  in  about  ten 
minutes ;  and  didn't  it  pour !  The  wind  blew,  and  it  lightened  and 
thundered  every  minute,  and  the  street  looked  just  like  a  river. 
I  got  tired  of  looking  at  it  after  a  while,  and  sat  down  to  read,  and 
in  about  an  hour,  when  it  was  beginning  to  rain  a  little  easier, 
mother  came  where  I  was,  and  said,  "I  wonder  where  sister  Eliza 
is ;  do  you  know,  Jimmy  ?"    And  I  said  I  supposed  she  was  on  the 


30  WERNER'S  READINGS 

roof,  for  I  left  her  there  when  I  fastened  the  scuttle  just  before 
it  began  to  rain. 

Nothing  was  done  to  me  until  after  they  had  got  two  men  to 
bring  Aunt  Eliza  down  and  wring  the  water  out  of  her,  and  the 
doctor  had  come,  and  she  had  been  put  to  bed,  and  the  house  was 
quiet  again.     By  that  time  father  had  come  home,  and  when  he 

heard  what  had  happened But,  there !  it  is  over  now,  and 

let  us  say  no  more  about  it.  Aunt  Eliza  is  as  well  as  ever,  but 
nobody  has  said  a  word  to  me  about  prompt  obedience  since  the 
thunder-shower. 


'MEMBER. 


J  Af\  EMBER,  awful  long  ago — 

IVl     'Most  a  million  weeks  or  so — 
How  we  tried  to  run  away. 
An'  was  gone  for  'most  a  day? 
Your  Pa  found  us  bofe — an'  nen 
Asked  if  we'd  be  bad  again — 
An'  we  promised,  by-um-by, 
Do  you  'member?     So  d'  I. 

'Member  when  I  tried  to  crawl 
Frough  vat  hole  beneaf  your  wall, 
An'  I  stuck,  becuz  my  head 
Was  too  big?    Your  Muvver  said, 
When  she  came  to  pull  me  frough, 
S'prised  you  didn't  try  it,  too. 
An'  you  did  it,  by-um-by. 
'Member?     Do  yuh?     So  d'  I. 

'Member  when  your  Muvver  said 
'At  she  wisht  I'd  run  an'  do 
All  ve  mischief  in  my  head 
All  at  once,  an'  get  it  frough? 
S'pose  we  did,  why,  maybe  ven 
We  could  do  it  all  again ! 
Guess  we  could  if  we  should  try — 
Will  y',  sometime?     So'll  I. 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.   32.  31 

WHY   THE    DOG'S    TAIL   WAS    SKINNED. 


French  Canadian  Dialect  Comedy  Monologue  for  a  Man. 


Arranged  as  a  monologue  expressly  for  this  book  by  Stanley  Schell. 


Characters  Represented  :    The  French  Canadian,  owner  of 
the  dog,  Speaker,  present;    Campers,  supposed  to>  be  present. 

Costume  :    Rough  camper's  costume. 

Stage-Setting  :    Camp  fire  scene. 

Scene  :  Campers  supposed  to  be  lying  about  camp  fire  near  stage 
center. 

[Enter  The  French  Canadian  with  a  supposed  dog  follow- 
ing at  his  heels.  He  occasionally  glances  at  the  dog  as  he  slowly 
crosses  stage  from  R.  rear  to  front  center,  apparently  moving 
around  several  men.  He  sits  quietly,  lights  his  old  pipe,  smiles 
a  little  as  he  seems  to  be  listening  to  what  they  are  talking  about, 
nods  head  and  smiles  again,  takes  a  long  puff  as  if  deeply  think- 
ing; then,  as  if  satisfied  with  the  result  of  his  reflections,  settles 
back  comfortably,  motioning  to  his  dog  to  lie  at  his  feet.  Then 
takes  another  long  puff  at  pipe  and  watches  the  smoke  go  off  as 
he  slowly  begins  to  talk.] 

YOU  men's  bin  ask  me  w'at  for  ah'm  skeen  ze  dog's  tail.  Ah'm 
tell  you.  [Another  long  puff  at  pipe  and  the  same  slow 
process  of  watching  the  smoke  curl  aivay.]  Ah'm  skeen  heem  for 
money,  skeen  heem  fer  cinque  dollar,  fer  ev'ry  hair  een  heem  tail, 
an'  more,  too.     Let  me  tell. 

Ze  dog  heem  bin  no  good,  jes'  lay  'roun'  camp  in  ze  sun  an'  bite, 
bite,  bite  fer  ze  flea.  Heem  geet  dir-ty,  an'  heem  eye  bin  geet 
red,  lak  heem  bin  on  beeg,  long,  booze.  Ze  boss  heem  com'  'long 
one  day  an'  heem  say :  "Eh,  Eli,  you  lazy  Frenchman,  you  tak' 
Carlo  down  stream  behin'  ze  bateau  an'  w'en  you  bin  geet  heem 
clean  you  tak'  heem  ashore  an'  keel  heem  dead,  an'  deeg  hoi'  an' 


&  WERNER'S  READINGS 

hide  heem  from  ze  eyes  of  me.  Eef  you  don't  do  eet,  Ah'm  keek 
you  out  ze  place." 

'Fraid?  Yes,  he  one,  big,  strong  man.  So,  Ah  kem  down. 
Carlo  heem  com'  'long  'hind  ze  bateau  an'  splash,  splash,  like  zis 
[makes  movements  with  his  hands  to  show  how  Carlo  did]  in  ze 
water,  lak  heem  bin  tickle  'most  'ter  bin  die.  [From  now  on  he 
grows  more  and  more  earnest,  gesticidating  frequently,  occasion- 
ally looking  closely  into  the  men's  faces.] 

Yas,  heem  stay  in  'long  time.  Heem  hav'  fin'  bully  time.  An' 
Ah'm  say  to  heem:  "Carlo,  you  bin  goin'  geet  yourself  keeled 
pretty  kveek.  Look  lak  you  was  sad,  Carlo;  eet  was  you'  las' 
chance,  sure."  An'  ze  dog  wag  heem  tail  more  fas'  an'  laugh  out 
heem  eyes  an'  say  ha-ha  in  heem  t'roat,  jes'  sam'  heem  go  on  ze 
peekneck  w'at  ze  Yankee  folks  tak'  w'en  zey  want  geet  drunk. 

•Understand?   Heem  un'stand  ev'ry  zing. 

Bimeby,  w'en  Ah'm  bin  tow  heem  two  mile,  an'  t'ink  heem  geet 
sam'  ez  clean,  Ah  tak'  heem  ashor'  an'  geet  ready  fer  keel 
heem. 

Dog  look  ?  Heem  look  sad  al'  time.    Heem  seemed  to  know. 

Soon  we  go  by  ze  shore.  Ze  sun  bin  shin'  in  ze  sky  lak'  heem 
hav'  good  tarn',  ze  water  seeng  on  ze  rocks,  lak'  heem  glad,  Carlo 
wag  heem  tail — weef,  weef,  weef — sam'  heem  bin  leef  mos'  all 
ze  tam'. 

Some'ow,  Ah  hear  ze  noise  on  ze  racks  an'  bin  theenk  w'at  mak' 
ze  chunk-chunk.  Ah  look,  an'  sure  ez  you  leef,  sure  ez  Ah'm 
tell  you,  Carlo,  heem  tail  bin  all  boonched  an'  broke  een  ze  clam 
shells,  w'at  grab  on  ze  hair  heem  tail  w'en  Ah  tow  heem  enn 
Ripogenus  Rips — twenty,  t'irty,  er  hun'er'  clams  all  grab  fas'  ter 
Carlo — heem  tail — an'  all  hoi'  on  lak  they  bin  goin'  tak  er  ride. 

Preety  beeg  clam  story  ?    Een  coorse  eet  is.    W'at  you  t'ink  ? 

W'at  Ah'm  do  now,  you  bin  t'ink?  W'at  you  do,  you  bin  in  ze 
place  Ah  vas  bin?     You  don't  know? 

Carlo  heem  bin  good  dog,  lazy,  lak  any  dog,  lak  you  an'  Ah'm 
bin  eef  you  an'  Ah'm  bin  dog.  But  heem  no  bad  dog  'nuf  make 
heem  die  'long  ze  clams.  So  Ah'm  bin  t'ink,  an  Ah  tak'  ze  knif 
an'  Ah'm  bin  whe-e-tle  ze  clams  away,  takin'  some  ze  hair  erlong 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.    32.  33 

ze  clams,  but  hav  ze  tail  all  sleek,  lak  eet  bin  new.  Carlo  heem 
stan'  steel  an'  wait  fer  ze  clams  fall  off,  lak  er  horse  w'en  you  bin 
tak'  off  ze  mucl.  Kveek  ez  Ah'm  bin  done  Carlo  heem  joomp  all 
over  mah  he'd  an'  leek  mah  face,  sam'  heem  bin  tickled  mos'  ready 
ter  die.       * 

Ah  do?  Ah'm  hav'  spell  ter  t'ink  right  now.  Eef  Ah  keel 
Carlo,  heem  bin  dead  all  tarn.  No  more  chase  ze  rabbit,  no  more 
tree  ze  'coon.  Ez  Ah'm  bin  theenk  Ah  open  ze  clams — cut,  cut 
ev'ry  tarn  lak  eet  cut  ze  heart.  — 

Ze  firs'  clam  heem  bin  beeg — heem  shell  ho'  seex  fingers  ze 
wheesky,  an'  w'en  Ah'm  bin  cut  heem  two  doors  open,  Ah  fin'  ze 
leetle  shine  gravel  een  heem.  Eet  bin  sam'  size  ze  bean  w'at  ze 
cook  geev  ze  mans  in  ze  camp,  an'  eet  bin  hard  an'  shine  lak  ze 
oil  lamp,  w'en  Ah'm  bin  touch  ze  match  ter  heem.  Ah  see  w'at 
heem  vas  ze  firs'  tarn  Ah  look. 

Vat  eet  vas  ?  Heem  bin  ze  beeg  pearl  w'at  ze  Yankeemans  buy, 
an'  Ah  say  eef  Ah'm  bin  fin'  more  pearl,  Ah'm  buy  Carlo  an'  keep 
heem  sam's  heem  bin  my  dog. 

Did  Ah  fin'  any?  Nex'  shell  hoi'  no  pearl — jes'  lak  clam,  no 
more.  W'en  Ah'm  open  seex  clam  Ah'm  bin  fin'  two  more  pearl, 
an'  keep  on,  so  w'en  Ah'm  bin  done  Ah  hav'  ze  wheesky  glass 
full  ze  pearl. 

Pearl  story  all  right?    You  no  b'live? 

Go  on  ?  Yas,  zat's  w'at  Ah  deed.  Ah  runned  back  ze  camp 
an'  say  ze  boss :  "W'at  heem  tak'  for  Carlo  heem  skeen  ?"  An' 
ze  boss  say : 

"Skeen  heem  eef  you  want  to,  an'  hurry  back  to  work  eef  you 
don'  want  to  lose  you'  own  skeen." 

Nex'  day  w'en  Ah  see  ze  boss,  heem  say :  "Eli,  you  black  Can- 
nucker,  w'at  for  you  no  keel  ze  dog?" 

An'  Ah  say :  "Ah'm  bin  buy  ze  skeen  w'at  Carlo  wear.  You 
sell  heem  ?" 

"Oui,  you  may  hav'  heem  now — tak'  heem,"  ze  boss  say,  but  ze 
skeen  is  no  good  till  you  bin  tak'  heem  off. 

"Ah'm  bin  lak'  Carlo  bes'  w'en  heem  skeen  iss  on  heem,"  say 
me.    An'  Ah  zen  show  ze  boss  ze  pearl  an'  bin  tell  heem  ze  story, 


34  WARNER'S  READINGS 

an'  ze  boss  heem  laugh  an'  say  Ah'm  bin  ze  mos'  rascalous  scoun- 
derl  heem  bin  see  een  seex  year. 

Na,  heem  keep  his  bargain.    He  no  tak  Carlo.    He  mine. 

So  Ah,  Carlo  an'  Ah  go  to  ze  river  an'  geet  ze  pearls — beeg, 
beeg,  beeg  ones.  He  do  better  ev'ry  day  an'  zat  ees  why  Ah  skeen 
hees  tail.     [Rises  and  starts  toward  exit.    Stops.] 

How  much  I  mak'  ?  No,  Ah  canno'  say  dat.  An'  Ah  see  Carlo 
now  an'  so  Ah  mus'  go  fin'  ze  pearls — an'  mak'  my  Carlo  sinks 
he's  gettin'  cleaned  once  more.     [Exits,  waving  hand.] 


THE    STUTTERING     LOVER. 


FRED  EMERSON  BROOKS. 


Ilu-love  you  very  well, 
Much  mu-more  than  I  can  tell, 
With  a  lu-lu-lu-lu-love  I  cannot  utter; 
I  kn-know  just  what  to  say 
But  my  tongue  gets  in  the  way, 
And  af-fe-fe-fe-fe-fection's  bound  to  stutter! 

When  a  wooer  wu-wu-woos, 

And  a  cooer  cu-cu-coos, 
Till  his  face  is  re-re-red  as  a  tomato, 

Take  his  heart  in  bi-bi-bits, 

Every  portion  n-fi-fits, 
Though  his  love  song  su-su-seem  somewhat  staccato! 

I'll  wu-worship  you,  of  course, 

And  nu-never  get  divorce, 
Though  you  stu-stu-stu'-stu-storm  in  angry  weather; 

For  whu-when  you're  in  a  pique, 

So  mu-mad  you  cannot  speak, 
We'll  be  du-du-du-du-dumb  then  both  together. 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.   32.  *  35 

CHRISTMAS    GREENS. 


Romantic   Monologue   for   a   Woman. 


Character  :  Miss  Nell  Hetherton,  Leading  Woman  of  the 
Comedy  Theatre,  New  York,  and  the  idol  of  the  town. 

Scene  :  The  drawing-room  of  Miss  Hetherton's  pretty  apart- 
ment in  Gramercy  Park.  A  fire  burns  in  the  grate,  and  a  lux- 
urious neglige  gown  and  slippers  are  over  a  chair  before  it. 
Table,  with  shaded  lamp,  boxes,  letters,  flowers. 

Time  :    Near  midnight  on  Christmas  Eve. 

[There  is  the  sound  of  a  cab-door  slammed,  the  rumble  of 
wheels,  and  in  another  moment  Miss  Hetherton  enters  with  her 
arms  full  of  red  roses.  She  zvears  an  opera  cloak  over  her  even- 
ing dress,  and  she  tosses  the  roses  on  a  conch,  turns  up  the  light, 
walks  back  to  the  door,  and  speaks:] 

THAT  will  do,  Celeste;  take  all  those  other  flowers  and  put 
them  where  they  will  keep  cool  and  fresh  till  morning.  To- 
morrow you  and  I  will  arrange  them  in  the  vases.  Yes,  I'll  keep 
these  here  with  me.  [Takes  up  one  of  the  roses  and  touches  it  to 
her  lips  and  zvhispers.]  They  remind  me  of  home — and  here, 
Celeste,  you  may  take  my  cloak  [drops  it  off  shoulders,  as  though 
giving  it  to  maid] ,  and  good-night  and  a  Merry  Christmas  to 
you  ! — and  oh  !  Celeste  [takes  up  a  parcel  from  the  corner],  here's 
something  for  you — a  new  silk  gown,  Celeste — and  I  bought  it 
for  you  myself!     [Laughs.]     Yes — thank  you,  Celeste — you  spoil 

me  [laughingly] .  "Oui — oui — mademoiselle — merci — merci !" 

[Botvs  the  maid  out  laughingly,  then  throzvs  herself  in  the  chair 
before  the  fire  and  clasps  her  hands  above  her  head.] 

Well,  there  is  no  place  like  my  own  little  snuggery,  and  yet  I 
am  here  like  a  veritable  old  maid,  alone  on  Christmas  Eve  [looks 
around],  and  not  a  bit  of  Christmas  green;  but  the  roses  will  do. 
What  a  delightful  little  supper  that  was  they  gave  me  to-night  on 
the  stage  after  the  play — and  such  a  lot  of  notables !  Dear  me ! 
And  all  presented  to  poor  little  Nell  Hetherton,  two  years  ago  a 
prim  schoolma'am  in  a  Western  mining  town !    Ah,  me !     [Looks 


36  ,  WERNER'S  READINGS 

at  bracelet  on  her  arm.]  That  was  nice  of  them  to  give  me  this 
bracelet.  I  value  it  more  than  all  the  rest.  [Takes  it  from  her 
arm  and  reads  inscription.]  "To  Miss  Nell  Hetherton,  from  the 
Company." 

Well,  I  wonder  now,  if  I  had  never  been  seized  with  that  wild 
desire  for  the  stage,  and  if  I  had  not  worked  and  saved  and  strug- 
gled to  get  to  New  York — and  if  I  had  married  Jack — where  I 
should  be  to-night.  [Leans  her  head  on  her  hand  and  looks  in  the 
fire.]  I  can  see  a  little  Western  home,  the  logs  blazing  on  the 
hearth,  the  table  spread  for  supper,  the  Christmas  greens  upon 
the  wall — and  Jack — and  I — heigh-ho  ! — I  in  a  gingham  apron, 
I  suppose,  mixing  biscuit — instead  of  being  Miss  Nell  Hetherton, 
whose  name  is  all  over  the  town  in  letters  as  big  as  I  am,  and  all 
the  men  running  after  me,  and  the  women  copying  my  bonnets, 
and  a  real  live  prince  at  my  feet.     [Laughs.] 

I  know  he  will  ask  me  to  marry  him !  Since  he  came  to  the  city 
fresh  from  his  Newport  adulation  and  attention,  he  has  been  my 
most  devoted  admirer.  And  no  diamond  bracelets  or  supper  invi- 
tations or  coroneted  cabs,  but  only  the  most  kind  and  courteous 
attentions :  his  morning  call  and  bunch  of  roses,  as  though  I  were 
a  debutante  in  my  first  season !  It  makes  me  almost  love  him. 
And  yet — he  hasn't  spoken ;  but  if  he  does — well,  he  is  not  so 
bad.  Old,  of  course,  but  distingue,  unassuming,  with  Old- World 
manners  and  a  great  old  name,  and  an  estate  that  half  the  mothers 
in  New  York  have  been  angling  for.  Princess !  Princess !  How 
fine  it  sounds.     [Muses.] 

And  Jack  has  not  sent  me  even  a  word-^-for  Christmas.  An- 
other sweetheart,  I  suppose.     [Hums.] 

"Sigh    no    more,    ladies,    sigh    no    more, 
Men  were  deceivers  ever." 

[Talks  to  the  rose.]     Would  he  be  even  a  little  bit  jealous,  do 

you  think,  if  he  knew  I  had  all  of  you  beautiful  roses  sent  me  by 

the  Prince — American  Beauties — instead  of  the  wild  roses  he  used 

to  gather  for  me  on  the  mountain?      [Takes  photograph  from 

mantel  and  gazes  at  it.]     What  did  I  ever  see  in. dear  old  Jack  to 

make  me  love  him  as  I  used  to? — square  chin  [squares  her  chin], 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.   32.  37 

mouth  with  just  a  little  sarcastic  laugh  always  at  the  corners  of  it, 
straight  nose,  mine  turned  up,  he  always  said.  He  doesn't  know 
what  a  howling  beauty  I  have  become — and  eyes — well,  his  eyes 
are  good — yes — it  must  have  been  the  eyes  !  [  Throws  the  picture 
suddenly  from  her.] 

And  Jack  has  never  sent  me  even  one  little  word.  What  will 
he  say,  I  wonder,  when  he  hears  that  I  am  a  princess?  And,  of 
course,  I'll  have  a  coronet — yes,  indeed,  the  very  latest  kind.  How 
shall  I  look  in  a  coronet,  I  wonder?  [Playfully  unfastens  her 
necklace  and  places  it  about  her  hair,  looks  in  the  mirror,  rises 
from  her  chair  and  curtseys  as  though  receiving  someone.] 

He  will  be  introduced,  of  course,  and  I  shall  put  up  my  lorgn- 
ette— so,  and  turning  the  full  light  of  my  coronet  upon  him — so 
— I'll  say :  "Ah,  quite  so.  I  remember  you  so  well,  Lord  Ran- 
dolph. At  Baden  it  was  we  met,  was  it  not?  And  how  is  dear 
Lady  Randolph  ?"  [Suddenly  sinks  into  chair,  as  though  tired 
of  the  jesting  mood.] 

After  all,  the  prince  has  not  asked  me  yet ;  but  I  know  what  his 
eyes  said  to-night  when  he  kissed  my  hand  at  the  carriage-door. 
"And  to-morrow,  mademoiselle,"  he  said,  "may  I  send  you  a 
white  rose?" 

That  is  so  like  a  Frenchman — he  had  just  sent  me  all  these 
beautiful  red  ones.  [Rises'.]  Perhaps  Jack  has  written.  [Looks 
through  notes  and  boxes  on  table;  tosses  them  aside  zvithout  open- 
ing.] Dear  me,  what  a  time  I  shall  have  writing  acknowledgments 
of  all  these  pretty  things.  What  beautiful  perfume  is  that? 
[Sniffs.]    Why — why — it's  like  PINE — from  the  old  tree — near 

the  school-house — where  Jack  and  I [Catches  sight  of  the 

large  box,  which  she  lifts  on  chair,  cuts  string,  and  removes 
cover.]  Oh!  how  beautiful!  [Lifts  a  mass  of  the  green,  sweet- 
smelling  pine  branches  to  her  bosom,  with  her  arms  clasped  about 
them  and  face  upraised,  pale  and  smiling.]  Why — it — must  be 
— from  Jack !  Thank  God  !*  [Picks  letter  from  among  ih& 
branches  in  box,  opens,  and  reads:] 


*  The  monologue  can  be  ended  here    if  desire.4,. 


38  WERNER'S   READINGS 

"Nell  Dear  :  Of  course,  I  have  heard  of  all  your  social  triumphs  of  the 
last  few  months,  and  your  final  coup,  the  capture  of  the  Prince  Ver- 
ronneiux.  Every  New  York  paper  that  has  reached  here  contains  accounts 
of  your  engagement  to  him.  I  do  not  believe  them,  but  I  am  forced  to 
think  that  even  your  true  heart  must  be  turned  with  all  this  adulation. 
I  do  not  care  to  hear  this  from  you,  but  I  send  you  word  that  I  prefer  to 
have  our  promise  as  though  it  had  never  been  made.  This  for  your  sake. 
You  know  how  much  I  love  you.  But  I  know  that  I  will  have  to  give 
more  than  another  year  before  I  can  realize  the  success  which  my  work 
here  is  sure  to  bring.  I  hope  to  have  wealth  in  a  few  years  sufficient  to 
take  care  of  you,  Nell,  and  make  a  home  for  you ;  but  until  then  can  I  ask 
you  to  give  up  such  brilliant  chances  as  are  offered  to  you  ?  It  would  be 
selfish  and  ungenerous  of  me  to  expect  anything  of  the  kind.  Let  your 
own  heart  tell  you  what  to  do,  not  any  fancied  duty  to  a  promise  that 
I  shall  never  hold  you  to  unless  you  choose  to  have  it  so.  God  bless  you, 
Nell.  I  send  you  a  box  of  pine  from  the  old  tree,  which  you  may  like 
to  have  for  Christmas  greens — just  as  you  used  at  home — you  remember, 
Nell—" 

[She  drops  her  head  upon  her  hands  for  a  moment,  as  though 
weeping  silently.  A  knock  at  the  door.  Hastily  takes  the  neck- 
lace from  her  head,  turns  down  the  light.] 

Well!  Ah,  Celeste!'  Well,  Celeste?  [Goes  to  the  door.]  Ah, 
it  is  Christmas  morning — impossible!  I  must  have  been  dream- 
ing by  the  fire,  and  these  beautiful  white  roses !  For  me ! — and 
a  letter! 

[Comes  back  with  large  basket  of  white  roses,  tied  with  tvhite 
satin  ribbon;  places  them  on  floor.  Christmas  chimes  sound 
faintly  from  without.  She  opens  large  white  envelope,  takes  out 
letter,  and  reads.] 

"Mademoiselle  : 

"You  know  you  have  my  heart.  I  lay  it  at  your  feet  with  these  blos- 
soms. .  I  ask  you,  mademoiselle,  if  you  will  be  my  wife?  I  will  not  say 
more.  Yesterday  I  sent  you  red  roses,  which  spoke  of  my  love.  This 
Christmas  morning,  I  send  you  bride  roses,  for  my  princess  that  is'  to  be, 
I  fondly  hope.  I  shall  be  proud,  mademoiselle,  if  you  will  but  send  me 
one  little  rose  by  my  messenger,  who  will  wait.  Send  me  no  cruel  letter, 
but  the  rose  or  nothing. 
•  ■'  "Allow  me,  mademoiselle,  to  sign  myself 

"Your  most  devoted  admirer,    ,.TT 

Verronneiux. 

[The  letter  flutters  from  her  hands  to  the  ground.  She  stands 
as  though  frightened  for  a  moment.  Falls  dazed  into  the  chair. 
Then,  she  takes  a  spray  of  pine  from  the  box,  places  it  upon  her 
hair  where  the  crown  has  been,  rises  to  her  feet,  and  looks  in  the 
mirror  over  the  mantel  with  a  smile,  then  she  turns  to  the  door.] 

Celeste,  tell  him — there  is  no  answer ! 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.    32.  3g 

A    CRUSHED    TRAGEDIAN. 


Comedy  Monologue  in  Verse   for  a  Man. 


ed.  l.  Mcdowell. 


Written  expressly  for  this  book. 


Character:     Actor,  Speaker  present. 

Costume  :'    Shabby,  genteel  suit. 

Scene  :    Enter  Actor,  gazes  about  and  then  addresses  audience. 

OH,  why  do  the  critics  insist  that  I 
Am  not  an  actor  born? 
Why  do  the  "gallery  gods,"  forsooth, 

Laugh  all  my  powers  to  scorn  ? 
I  feel  great  fires  within  my  frame 

Which  high  should  mount 

From  my  soul's  fount 
And  set  the  world  aflame. 
Then  why  am  I  here  in  this  No  Man's  Land, 

So  far  from  the  marts  of  trade? 
Collect  thyself,  mind — ah,  yes,  last  week 

I  enacted  the  great  Jack  Cade. 
Yes,  I  lived  Cade's  life  through  every  scene 

And  showed  Jack's  hopes  and  fears ; 
Next  morn  the  New  York  critics  proved 

That  I  played  a  Jack — with  ears ! 

[Illustrating  a  donkey's  ear-Haps,  etc.] 

The  theatre  was  crowded  from  pit  to  dome 

To  see  me  enact  the  hero  of  Rome. 

Forth  I  rushed  on  the  stage  midst  the  wildest  applause, 

And  my  very  first  speech  won  a  storm  of  huzzas — 

Too  stormy  methought.     Yet  it  flattered  my  pride, 
And  resolved  me  the  more.    So  with  grand  tragic  stride 


40  WERNER'S  READINGS 

And  Delsartian  sweep  of  my  eloquent  arms, 

I  proceeded  to  paralyze  the  house  with  my  charms — 

When  something  hit  me  in  the  neck 
Which  aroused  my  dramatic  ire, 

"The  man  that  threw  that  egg,"  says  I, 
"Is  a — a — parabolical,   diabolical  liar." 

He  apologized  and  said  that  far 

From  theatrical  infracting, 
That  he'd  paid  his  money  to  see  me  act 

And  intended  to  be  exacting.     [Egsacting.] 

Oh,  then  awoke  the  hopes  that  slept  within  my  manly  breast, 
An  exacting  audience  now  must  needs  to  see  me  act  my  best. 

But  alas !  the  perfume  of  that  venerable  egg 

Had  my  memory  so  unfixed 
That  the  lines  of  every  play  I  knew 

Got  most  confoundedly  mixed. 

"To  be  or  not  to  be,"  I  shrieked — 

The  audience  thought  I'd  better  not; 
Advised  me  to  go  and  soak  my  head, 

Or  seek  some  breezy  spot, 

Where  the  wind  might  through  my  whiskers  blow, 

Ere  I  turned  up  my  toes  to  the  daisies.    "Oh, 

Cruel  critics,"  I  cried,  "you  shall  hear  me  yet ; 

Richard's  himself  again,  you  bet." 

They  applauded,  then  hooted,  then  crushed  my  hopes 

With  bouquets  tied  to  the  ends  of  ropes. 

They  guyed  me,  yes  and  they  bouquets  plied — 

Of  a  vegetable  kind — till  I  could  have  died. 

Yet,  "On  with  the  play  though  it  rain  cats  and  dogs," 
I  yelled,  while  showers  of  eggs  bespattered  my  "togs." 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.   32.  41 

Fiercely  I  acted  till  a  big  potato  caught  me 
Somewhere  in  the  ribs,  and  suddenly  brought  me — 
Well,  nearer  to  death  than  I  care  to  be  brought. 

But  ha— ha !  my  second  wind  came,  I  called  for  my  "cue." 
Zounds  !  the  prompter  had  skipped  with  my  cue  and  watch,  too. 
Yes,  manager,  scene-shifters,  dizzy  actors — all  gone — 
Had  left  me  to  play  out  Jack  Cade  all  alone. 

Still  my  soul  was  resolved  that  my  genius  should  win, 
So,  grandly  in  monologue  I  again  did  begin, 
When  a  twenty-pound  cabbage  found  its  way  to  my  head, 
And  all  my  ambition  immediately  fled. 

That's  why  I  am  here  in  this  No  Man's  Land, 

Far  away  from  the  marts  of  trade, 
And  here  I'll  abide,  for  I  understand 

That  a  "return  engagement"  would  occasion  a  raid. 

Thank  heaven !  I  still  live !   Alack,  my  poor  poll, 
Thou  hast  brought  naught  but  shame  to  my  ambitious  soul. 
Alack,  poor  Yorick !  Great  Kraut !  when  that  huge  cabbage  fell, 
Methought  'twere  a  summons  to  heaven  or  to — sheol ! 

No  more  will  the  hair  on  my  dizzy  skull  grow — 

'Tis  cabbaged  for  good ;  well,  well,  let  it  go,  heigh-ho,  heigh-ho ! 

No  more  on  the  stage  as  a  target  I'll  stand ; 

Henceforth  I'll  scratch  gravel  in  No  Man's  Land. 

Perhaps  as  a  farmer  kind  nature  may  find 

Some  chance  for  the  genius  which  cankers  my  mind. 

So  farewell  to  tragedy ;  welcome,  thrice  welcome  the  plow. 
Come  farm-fruit,  come  hen-fruit,  I'll  cabbage  you  now. 

But  I'd  let  a  wilderness  of  monkeys  all  my  farm  prospects  ravage 
Just  to  "plug"  the  propeller  of  that  twenty-pound  cabbage, 


42  WERNER'S  READINGS 

AUNT  SOPHRONIA  TABOR  AT  THE  OPERA. 


Yankee  Dialect  Comedy  Monologue  for  a  Woman. 


Arranged  as  monologue  expressly  for  this  book  by  Elise  West. 


Characters  Represented:     Aunt  Sophronia,  Speaker,  pres- 
ent; Louisa,  her  niece,  supposed  to  be  present. 

Costume  :    Old-fashioned  black  alpaca  or  black  silk  costume,  etc. 

[Enter  Aunt  Sophronia  looking  at  orchestra  as  she  moves 
along,  and  talks  then  at  audience  and  whole  building.] 

SO  this  is  the  uproar?  Well,  isn't  this  a  monster  big  building? 
And  that  Chanticleer !  It's  got  a  thousand  candles,  if  it  has 
one.  I  wish  that  your  Uncle  Peleg  was  here.  You're  sure, 
Louisa,  that  this  is  a  perfectly  proper  place?  Somehow,  you  city 
folks  look  upon  such  things  differently  than  we  do  who  live  in  the 
country.  Dear  suz !  Louisa,  do  look  way  up  there  in  the  tiptop 
of  the  house !  Did  you  ever  see  such  a  sight  of  people !  Why, 
excursion  trains  must  have  run  from  all  over  the  State.  Massy, 
child!  There's  a  woman  forgot  her  bonnet!  My  Eliza  Ann  cut 
just  such  a  caper  as  that  one  Sunday  last  summer, — got  clean  into 
the  meeting  house,  and  half  way  down  the  middle  aisle,  before  she 
discovered  it,  and  the  whole  congregation  a-giggling  and  a-titter- 
ing.  Your  cousin  Woodman  Harrison  shook  the  whole  pew. 
Just  speak  to  that  poor  creature,  Louisa.  She'll  feel  awfully  cut 
up  when  she  finds  it  out.  Come'  bareheaded  a-purpose !  Well,  I 
do  declare!  But,  Louisa,  where's  the  horse-chestnut?  You  said 
something  or  other  about  a  horse-chestnut  playing  a  voluntary. 

Them  men  with  the  fiddles  and  the  bass-viols  ?  I  want  to  know ! 
Belong  to  the  first  families,  I  suppose.  They  are  an  uncommon 
good-looking  set  of  men.  Is  Mrs.  Patte  a  furrener  ?  There  goes 
the  curtain.  Louisa,  oughtn't  we  to  stand  up  during  prayer-time  ? 
Dear  suz !  I  wish  your  Uncle  Peleg  was  here.  Somehow,  it  seems 
kinder  un-Christian  to  be  play-acting  worship.  La  sakes,  child, 
what  is  the  matter  ?    Is  the  theatre  on  fire  ?    It's  only  the  people 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.   32.  43 

applauding  because  Patte  is  on  the  stage  ?  Sakes  alive !  Is  that 
it?  I  thought  we  was  all  afire,  or  Wiggins  flood  had  come.  So 
that  is  Mrs.  Patte.  Well,  I  declare  for  it !  she's  as  spry  as  a 
cricket,  and  no  mistake.  Why,  she  looks  scarcely  out  of  her 
teens.  How  old  is  she,  Louisa?  Over  forty?  Is  it  possible? 
There,  they're  at  it  again. 

What  is  the  matter  now?  What,  that  dapper  little  fellow 
a-bowing  and  a-scraping  and  a-smirking !  Is  that  Mr.  Scalchi  ? 
Madame  Scalchi?  Louisa,  are  you  sure  that  this  is  a  perfectly 
proper  place?  I  only  wish  Peleg  was  here,  for  then  I  shouldn't 
feel  so  sort  a-skerry  like  and  .guilty.  Listen  to  that  music,  listen, 
Louisa.  Hip,  hip,  hooray!  Well,  I  never!  The  sweat's  just 
a-rolling  off  me,  and  I  am  as  weak  as  a  rag-baby.  I  wish  I  had 
my  turkey-tail.  This  mite  of  a  fan  of  yours  don't  give  wind 
enough  to  cool  a  mouse.  Didn't  that  sound  like  an  angel  choir? 
I'm  so  glad  I  came;  and  if  Peleg  was  only  along!  But,  there,  I 
hain't  going  to  speak  again  till  the  uproar  is  over. 

Louisa  Allen,  what  are  them  half-nude  statutes  a-standing  up 
in  the  back  there  ?  Don't  they  realize  that  the  whole  congregation 
can  see  them  ?  and  haven't  they  any  modesty  ?  The  bally  ?  Louisa 
Sophronia  Tabor  Allen,  just  you  pick  up  your  regimentals,  and 
follow  me ;  and  that  quick,  too.  You  needn't  auntie  me.  Just  get 
your  duds  together,  and  we'll  travel.  Thank  goodness  your 
Uncle  Peleg  Josiah  Tabor  is  not  here !  Don't  let  me  see  you  give 
as  much  as  a  glance  to  where  those  graceless  nudities  are,  or,  big 
as  you  are,  I'll  box  your  ears.  Louisa,  I  only  wish  I  had  my  thick- 
est veil,  for  I  am  positively  ashamed  to  be  caught  in  this  un-Chris- 
tian  scrape.  Come,  and  don't  raise  your  eyes.  There,  thank  good- 
ness, we're  in  pure  air  at  last !  I  have  nothing  to  say  agin  the 
uproar.  Them  voices  would  grace  a  celestial  choir.  This  I  say 
with  all  reverence.  But  that  side  show !  I  wouldn't  have  had 
my  Eliza  Ann  nor  my  Woodman  Harrison  a-witnessed  what 
we've  come  near  a-witnessing  for  a  thousand-dollar  bill.  No,  not 
for- a  ten-thousand-dollar  bill.  And  I  am  so  thankful  that  your 
Uncle  Peleg  was  not  here !  Somehow,  Louisa,  I  feel  as  if  I'd 
fallen  like  the  blessed  Lucifer  out  of  the  moon. 


44  WERNER'S  READINGS 

BILLY   THE    HERMIT. 


Pathetic  Yankee  Dialect  Monologue  for  a  Man. 


RUTH  EDWARDS. 


Arranged  as  monologue  expressly  for  this  book  by  Grace  B.  Faxon. 


[Suitable  for  any  occasion,  but  especially  suitable  for  Hunting, 
or  Camp,  Bird-Day,  Children  of  Mercy  Day,  Sunday  Schools.] 

Characters  Represented:  Billy  the  Hermit,  Speaker,  pres- 
ent; Sonny,  a  small  favorite  of  the  Hermit,  and  several  chil- 
dren, all  supposed  to  be  present. 

Costumes:  Billy  the  Hermit  wears  an  old-fashioned  brown 
cloth  suit,  large-rimmed  soft  felt  hat,  heavy  looking  boots.  He 
should  be  made  up  as  an  old  and  wrinkled  man. 

Stage-Setting  :  Outdoor  scene, — trees,  grass,  etc.  Near  stage 
front  R.  should  stand  a  part  of  an  old  trunk  of  a  tree  (about 
two  feet  high),  and  near  it  lying  down  the  trunk  of  another 
tree. 

Scene  :  Enter  from  L.  C  side  entrance  and  walk  slowly  across 
stage,  acting  as  if  interested  and  looking  at  the  small  people 
walking  with  you.  Talk  as  you  cross  stage  and  finish  first  para- 
graph of  monologue  by  the  time  you  have  reached  the  tree- 
trunk.  After  all  are  seated,  seat  yourself,  cross  your  legs,  set- 
tle down  with  thoughtful  attitude  and  go  on  with  the  mono- 
logue. 

DID  I  ever  shoot  anything?  Wal,  yes,  sonny,  I  did  once.  I 
dunno  why  I  done  it — nor  never  did.  But  I  know  this 
much — I  hain't  never  touched  a  gun  since  and  don't  never  want 
to!  Tell  you  about  it?  Wal,  'tain't  much  of  a  story.  Dunno  as 
you  'd  be  much  int'rested  in  it.  But  seein'  as  you  asked,  I  guess 
I  may  as  well  tell  you.  But  fust,  all  set  down  on  thet  are  log. 
Thet's  right.  Naow  I'll  set  down.  Be  you  all  comfortable?  You 
be?    Thet's  right. 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.   32.  45 

You  see  it  was  like  this — happened  a  long  time  ago  when  I  was 
a  boy.  Seems  kinder  cur'ous  sometimes  when  I  think  I  was  ever  a 
little  boy,  young  as  you  be,  sonrty.  Dunno  as  you'd  care  to  hear 
about  my  mother,  but  she  somehow  comes  into  the  story.  Hain't 
talked  about  her  to  any  one  for  years.  She  warn't  never  very 
strong  and  she  used  to  have  to  work  too  hard — cookin'  and  sewin' 
and  washin,  and  ironin'.  Terrible  pretty  she  was,  too !  What 
was  she  like?  Wal,  she  was  kinder  little  and  slender  and  her  hair 
was  all  waves  and  crinkles  and  just  the  color  of  the  inside  of  a 
chestnut  burr  and  nigh  about  as  soft  and  silky ;  and  her  eyes  were 
jest  like  them  little  still  dark  places  in  the  brook  where  the  grass 
grows  right  down  to  the  water  and  every  once  in  a  while  the  sun 
shines  down  and  makes  a  sparkle.  You  know  them  places — jest 
the  places  to  catch  penny  fish,  you  know. 

Wal,  mother  was  awful  good  to  me.  She  used  to  take  me 
walkin'  in  the  woods  Sunday  afternoons  and  tell  me  'bout  the 
birds  and  the  flowers  and  a  whole  lot  of  things  that  she  seemed 
to  know  more  about  than  anybody  did.  Dunno  how  she  ever 
learned  it  all,  but  somehow  she'd  found  out.  Guess  'twas  'cause 
she  loved  all  them  outdoor  things  so. 

"Don't  you  ever  hurt  anything,  Billy,"  she  used  to  say  to  me, 
"leastwise  don't  you  never  hurt  anything  littler  than  you  be.  Ain't 
nuthin'  in  the  world  so  bad  as  bein'  cruel.  And  don't  you  never 
think  jest  because  you're  a  man  that  God  made  this  world  jest 
so  you  could  have  a  good  time,  and  that  nuthin'  ain't  got  no  rights 
except  you.  Everything  on  the  face  of  this  earth's  got  jest  as 
much  right  to  be  happy  as  you  have  and  jest  as  much  right  to 
live." 

She  set  more  store  by  the  Spring  than  any  other  time  of  year. 
You  ought  to  have  seen  her  when  the  first  dandelions  came  out! 
She  was  jest  like  a  little  girl — making  curls  out  of  their  stems  and 
stickin'  them  behind  her  ears,  and  holdin'  the  blossoms  under  my 
chin  to  see  if  I  liked  butter.  You  know  them  little  furry  blue  flow- 
ers that  come  the  earliest  of  anything  'cept  chickweed  ? — how  she 
jest  used  to  love  'em  !  She  used  to*  say  that  the  little  Quaker  ladies 
was  noddin'  and  sayin',  "How  do  you  do  ?"  to  each  other,  and  that 


46  WERNER'S  READINGS 

it  had  been  snowin'  violets  when  the  meadows  were  all  purple  with 
'em.  And  you  know  them  little  maple  trees  that  come  up  every 
year  and  never  seem  to  amount  to  nothin',  jest  pokin'  their  heads 
through  the  ground  under  the  big  trees — she  thought  it  was  right 
cute  the  way  they  kept  that  old  brown  seed-wing  on  their  heads 
for  the  time  bein'  before  they  shook  it  off  and  went  bare- 
headed. 

"The  weather  ain't  quite  warm  enough  yet,  Billy,"  she  used  to 
say.  "They're  afraid  of  ketchin'  cold."  And  I  don't  never  see 
them  baby  fern  leaves  all  curled  up  and  sleepy-lookin'  that  I  don't 
think  how  she  used  to  say,  "See  'em,  Billy,  see  'em  stretchin'  their 
necks  and  bendin'  backwards  to  see  if  there  ain't  no  chance  of 
their  gettin'  to  be  as  tall  as  the  trees  some  day !  Better  take  care 
you  don't  get  a  crick  in  those  backs  of  yours,  little  babies,"  she 
used  to  say,  strokin'  'em  as  tender  as  though  they  could  feel  it! 
And  the  way  she'd  stand  and  listen  to  them  song-birds!  jest  as 
still  with  her  hand  sorter  raised  and  her  lips  all  a-tremblin'  and 
a-smilin'.  "Ain't  goin'  to  be  no  sweeter  sounds  than  that  in 
heaven,  Billy,"  she'd  say  to  me.  I  can  see  them  brown  eyes  of 
hern  with  the  little  sparkle  in  'em  this  minute. 

Any  of  you  know  what  a  flicker  is?  'Bout  as  han'some  a  bird 
as  they  is,  to  my  thinkin'.  Some  folks  calls  'em  golden-winged 
woodpeckers,  and  they've  got  a  lot  of  other  names,  too;  but 
mother  always  called  'em  flickers — somethin'  'bout  the  name 
seems  to  make  me  see  the  way  their  wings  sorter  flash  and  turn  all 
goldie  when  you  see  'em  flyin'.  They've  got  mighty  strong-lookin' 
bodies,  and  long  bills,  and  big,  bright  eyes,  and  right  on  top  of 
their  heads  is  jest  the  prettiest  red  batch  of  feathers  you  ever  see, 
kinder  in  the  shape  of  a  new  moon. 

Wal,  a  pair  of  them  flickers  made  a  nest  in  an  old  elm  tree  right 
by  our  kitchen  door.  Mother  most  went  wild  over  it.  She  loved 
to  hear  them  tap-tap-tappin'  at  the  tree  trunks,  a-borin'  and 
a-borin'  and  jest  makin'  the  sawdust  fly,  I  can  tell  you.  Wal,  we 
watched  'em  every  day  and  they  got  to  be  jest  like  friends  and 
didn't  'pear  to  be  much  frightened  at  anything  mother  nor  me 
done.     Makes  me  'shamed  now  to  think  how  trustin'  and  unsus- 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.    32.  47 

pectin'  they  was.  Kinder  hate  to  tell  you  children  how  mean  I 
was,  but  sorter  serve  me  right  to  let  you  know,  p'rhaps.  You  see 
it  was  like  this :  'Twas  one  of  them  cold,  cloudy  days  that  come 
along  in  the  Springtime.  Kind  of  a  day  that  jest  chills  you  to  the 
bone  more  than  Winter  will,  p'rhaps,  and  the  trees  jest  creak 
and  kinder  scold  on  account  of  the  weather  puttin'  back  their 
leaves  from  unfoldin'.  Jest  the  kind  of  a  day  when  a  boy  feels 
all  upset  and  nuthin'  seems  to  go  right. 

'Bout  noontime,  when  mother  was  busy  gettin'  dinner,  a  man 
with  a  gun  comes  up  to  the  kitchen  door  and  asks  if  we'll  let  him 
stay  an'  eat  with  us.  Said  he  hadn't  brought  no  provisions  with 
him  and  was  mighty  hungry.  He  was  a  good-lookin',  city  kind 
of  chap,  and  he  took  off  his  hat  to  mother,  polite  as  you  please,  as 
he  stood  lookin'  in  at  her. 

"Sure,  you're  welcome,  sir,  to  anything  we've  got,"  mother 
said.  "You'd  be  more  welcome,  though,  without  that  gun  of 
yourn.     Hope  you  ain't  shot  anything  to-day." 

"No,  I  ain't,"  said  he,  kinder  sheepish.  "Guess  I  ain't  a  very 
good  shot." 

"Oughter  be  ashamed  of  yourself  to  try,"  said  mother,  her 
cheeks  all  reddenin'  up.  "Don't  s'pose  you  have  to  go  huntin'  to 
make  your  livin'.     You  don't  looks  though  you  did:" 

"No,"  seys  he,  "I  don't  have  to  do  it." 

"Do  it  jest  for  fun,  I  s'pose?"  seys  mother. 

"Wal,  yes,  sport,  you  know,"  seys  he. 

"Sport!"  seys  mother  with  the  sparkle  in  them  brown  eyes  of 
hern  flashin'  out  at  him.  "Wonder  what  right  you  think  you  got 
to  git  sport  from  takin'  what  you  can't  never  give  again — the  life 
of  them  poor  little  birds  and  squirrels !  Think  the  Lord  made  'em 
so  you  could  enjoy  yourself  murderin'  of  'em?  Must  think  the 
Lord  sets  a  powerful  lot  of  store  by  you,  givin'  you  live  things 
to  play  with  and  break  jest  for  the  fun  of  it!  I  ain't  got  no  pa- 
tience with  such  ideas.  Them  birds  and  squirrels  are  my  friends 
and  it  hurts  me  worse  than  anything  to  have  'em  killed  jest  for 
sport !" 

The  city  chap  looked  at  her  kinder  wonderin'  like,  and  seys  he : 


48  WERNER'S  READINGS 

"Wal,  if  you'll  let  me  have  something  to  eat,  I  promise  you  I 
won't  do  no  more  shootin'  to-day.    Come,  is  it  a  bargain  ?" 

Mother  was  mighty  tickled.  I  could  see  that  she'd  got  this 
much  out  of  him,  and  she  flew  'round  right  lively  gettin'  dinner 
for  him,  I  can  tell  you.  He  kep'  a-gazin'  at  her  as  though  he  liked 
her  looks.     Mother  was  terrible  pretty ! 

Wal,  when  he  went  in  to  dinner  he  stood  his  gun  up  beside  the 
door,  and  seys  he,  "Don't  you  touch  it,  boy,  'cause  it's  loaded  and 
you  might  hurt  yourself." 

Hadn't  thought  of  touchin'  it  before,  but  when  he  said  that  so 
high  and  mighty,  I  jest  made  up  my  mind  I  would  anyway.  So 
when  he'd  gone  in,  I  up  and  took  his  gun  and  made  believe  I  was 
aimin'  at  something  jest  as  I'd  seen  men  do  before. 

Wal,  while  I  was  a-aimin',  one  of  those  flickers  that  mother 
thought  such  a  heap  of  flew  down  from  that  old  elm  tree  and  set 
facin'  me  on  a  stump  with  his  big  black  eyes  a-shinin'  and  the  red 
feathers  on  his  head  lookin'  mighty  pert  and  cheerful.  Dunno  why 
I  done  it,  dunno  whether  I  really  meant  to  do  it — might  have  been 
an  accident,  might  not — all  happened  so  quick  I  can't  say.  But 
first  I  knew  there  was  a  bang,  and  then  I  see  that  flicker  tumble 
off  the  stump,  and  the  red  feathers  on  his  head  warn't  half  so 
bright  as  the  -blood  that  kinder  trickled  down  his  breast. 

Yes,  I  killed  him.  I  ran  and  picked  him  up  all  warm  and 
bleedin'  and  flutterin'  and  the  white  film  comin'  over  his  eyes. 
Then  he  gave  one  little  flutter,  as  though  he  wanted  to  git  away 
from  me,  and  then  he  didn't  flutter  no  more,  jest  lay  still  in  my 
hand. 

Mother  came  runnin'  out  and  the  city  chap  with  her,  all  scared 
and  tremblin',  'spectin'  to  see  me  dead,  I  s'pose.  But  when  mother 
saw  how  'twas  she  took  that  flicker  out  of  my  hand  and  gave  me 
such  a  look  as  I  never  had  seen  before.  She  didn't  say  a  word  to 
me,  but  smoothed  his  feathers,  and  kinder  cuddled  him  up  against 
her  cheek  and  kep'  a-sayin',  "Oh,  you  poor  little  birdie."  And 
that  city  chap  stood  and  looked  at  her  and  couldn't  say  a  word. 

Wal,  I  ain't  never  touched  a  gun  since  that  day,  children,  and 
I  don't  never  want  to. 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.    32.  49 

A   WOMAN'S   VENGEANCE. 


Dramatic  and  Tragic  Monologue  in  Verse  for  a  Woman. 


THOMAS  F.  WILFORD. 


Written  expressly  for  this  book. 


Character  :     Wronged   Wife,   Speaker,  present.     Directs  her 
conversation  to  the  audience. 

Scene  :    Cell  interior. 

I     THANK  you  for  your  sympathy, 
But  help !     No,  there  is  none  for  me, 
For  what  I've  done  I  feel  no  sting 
Of  penitence,  nor  can  time  bring 
One  pang  of  sorrow.     Penalty  ! 
For  what  they  now  may  do  with  me 
I  care  but  little.     He  is  dead — 
And  that  ends  all. 

V/hat  made  me  do  the  deed  ?    The  old, 
Old,  time-worn  story  of  man's  cold 
And  heartless  cruelty;  of  wrongs 
Heaped  on  her  head,  to  whom  belongs 
At  least  respect,  if  nothing  more ; 
A  husband's  deviltry,  a  sore 
Heart  for  a  patient,  sufFring  wife; 
A  blasted,  hopeless,  wretched  life; 
My  sweet  child's  death ;  a  constant  hell 
On  earth  for  me — for  these  he  fell. 

I  met  him — him,  my  husband, — just 
Five  years  ago.     My  God !  what  trust 
I  placed  in  his  fair  words,  so  soft, 
So  sweet,  so  full  of  love,  that  oft 
I  thought  more  of  his  trait'rous  smile, 


50  WERNER'S  READINGS 

That  had  such  magic  to  beguile, 

Than  Heaven's  pure  and  bless'd  decree,— 

Than  e'en  th'  Eternal  Deity. 

I  thought  him  all  that  woman's  mind 

Had  e'er  conceived.     But  love  is  blind. 

The  first  two  years 
Were  full  of  joy — joy  without  tears. 
The  skies  were  bright ;  no  clouds  above ; 
My  life  was  one  of  peaceful  love. 
But  ah !  the  change  came  sudden,  fast ; 
My  summer  sun  was  overcast ; 
The  gloom  of  death  fell  on  my  heart: 
I  saw  the  light  for'er  depart; 
The  godlike  being  that  I  thought 
Of  all  mankind,  most  perfect  wrought 
Tore  off  the  mask  that  hid  his  face, 
And  to  my  horror,  in  his  place, 
Revealed  a  demon  blackest-hued, 
Remorseless,  pitiless,  imbued 
With  all  the  wickedness  the  heart 
Can  hold,  or  shameless  sin  impart. 

I  kissed  our  child  with  sobs  and  tears, 
And  murmured  still,  though  full  of  fears, 
"He  yet  will  change,  he  cannot  be 
So  cruel,  child,  to  me  and  thee." 
Alas !  my  hopes  were  all  in  vain ; 
The  old  days  ne'er  would  come  again. 
The  loving  words  to  curses  turned; 
My  fond  advances  all  were  spurned; 
The  embrace  became  a  stinging  blow ; 
And  eyes  that  once  were  all  aglow 
With  tenderest  fire,  with  hate's  fierce  blaze 
Now  shone  on  me  with  scorching  rays. 
Thus  was  my  every  sad  day's  flight, 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  32.  51 

A  curse  at  morn,  a  blow  at  night. 
I  soon  become  for  him  a  thing 
To  tread  upon, — a  clod  to  fling 
From  out  his  path.     I  took  my  child, 
And  fled  one  night,  half-maddened,  wild, 
Far  from  his  sight — I  cared  not  where 
So  I  again  his  face  might  ne'er 
Behold.     But  soon  once  more  with  words 
That  seemed  to  me  like  song  of  birds 
He  sought  me  out,  and  with  his  eyes 
Filled  with  repentant  tears,  and  sighs 
That  spoke  of  sincere  love,  implored 
Forgiveness ;  and  I — fool !    ignored 
The  past,  forgot  my  woes,  and  went 
Back  to  his  home  with  heart  content. 

Once  more  his  solemn  vows  were  cast 
Aside  as  idle  words,  and  worse 
Than  e'en  before — a  daily  curse 
My  life  became.    I  tried  to  bear 
My  heavy  cross ;  my  fervent  prayer 
Was  still  for  strength  from  Him  above, 
Who  lightens  labors  with  His  love. 
And  so  my  load  of  cruelty 
I  bore  unheeding,  patiently. 

Then  came  at  last  the  final  blow — 
The  worst  that  love  can  contemplate 
And  which  can  turn  that  love  to  hate. 
One  night  when  he  had  gone  from  me, 
I  found  a  letter  which  he  carelessly 
Had  overlooked.     The  script  was  small 
And  neat — a  woman's  hand !    A  wall 
Of  fire  outstretched  before  my  eyes ; 
A  nameless  horror  seemed  to  rise. 
No,  no !  this  could  not  be.    He  might 


52  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Be  bad,  be  dead  to  sense  of  right, 

But  false!   O  heaven!  the  dreadful  thought 

Surged  in  my  brain.    I  crushed  it,  fought 

It  down  with  frenzied  eagerness. 

The  note  was  open;  chilled,  nerveless, 

I  drew  it  from  its  fold  and  read. 

Not  long  I  had  to  wait  in  dread ; 

'Twas  true — all  true !    I  reel'd  and  fell. 

How  long  I  lay  I  could  not  tell, 

But  I  awoke  heartsick  and  dazed, 

The  letter  in  my  grasp.     Half  crazed 

I  smoothed  it  out  and  read  again, 

Though  every  word  was  growing  pain : 

"This  night  to  meet  him,"  so  it  said. 

My  child  from  off  the  floor  I  clasped, 

And  from  the  bureau  drawer  I  grasped 

A  loaded  pistol  that  would  right 

My  wrong.     So  out  into  the  night, 

Into  the  raging  storm  I  fled, 

My  babe  clasped  in  my  arms.    No  dread 

Had  I  of  wind  or  rain  that  beat 

Upon  me ;  I  could  but  repeat, 

"False  !    false  !    I'll  be  revenged  !"    My  soul, 

Now  stirr'd  and  rous'd  beyond  control, 

Was  filled  with  one  desire  alone. 

And  that  was  that  he,  should  atone 

For  this — to  woman — foulest  wrong. 

So  through  the  night  I  sped  along 
Until  I  reached  her  house,  and  worn 
And  faint,  with  clothing  rent  and  torn, 
I  leaned  against  the  casement  and 
My  moaning  babe  with  soft  command  ■ 
Caressed  and  soothed.    And  then  I  heard 
A  voice  within — his  voice !    each  word 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.   32.  53 

In  sweet  and  loving  tenderness; 

And  accents  that  my  heart  should  bless 

Were  lavished  on  her  list'ning  ears. 

I  listen'd,  listen'd,  all  unseen, 

Until  I  thought  I  should  go  wild. 

Then  clasping  close  my  trembling  child, 

I  with  a  desperate  hand  flung  wide 

The  casement ;  with  a  bound  beside 

The  two  I  stood.    She  started — screamed; 

He  turned  and  saw  me,  and  then  seem'd 

A  moment  as  if  turned  to  stone ; 

And  as  his  baseness  I  made  known, 

Poor  thing — she,  with  a  long,  low  cry, 

Sank  to  the  floor  despairingly. 

Then  like  a  fiend  let  loose  from  hell, 

He  toward  me  leaped  with  one  fierce  yell, 

And  grasping  quick  a  heavy  chair 

Cried,  "Curse  you !"  whirled  it  high  in  air. 

I  sprang  aside  in  sudden  dread ; 

The  blow  fell  full  upon  the  head 

Of  my  sweet  child  that  lifeless  dropped 

Back  in  my  arms.    My  heart  throbs  stopped ; 

A  red  mist  swam  before  my  sight; 

I  could  not  scream  try  as  I  might. 

I  grasped  the  pistol  from  my  breast, — 

And  then  I  killed  him! 

God  will  not  judge  me  hard,  I  know. 

He  sees  my  heart  and  saw  my  life ; 

He  knew  its- bitterness  and  strife. 

And  when  in  answer  to  His  call 

I  stand  within  the  heavenly  hall,  „   . 

Where  justice  to  the  least  is  done 

And  lowest,  and  the  Blessed  One 

Says,  "Why  hast  thou  transgressed  my  laws?" 

My  babe  shall  plead  its  mother's  cause. 


54  WERNER'S  READINGS 


BETSEY. 


Comedy  Monologue  for  a  Woman. 


Translated   from   the   French   expressly   for   this   book    by   Lucy  Hayes 

Macqueen. 


Character  :    Betsey,  the  Cook,  Speaker  present ;  her  Mistress, 
a  Postman,  supposed  to  be  just  outside  the  door  or  in  the  hall. 

Scene  :    A  kitchen.     Table  R.    Door  R.     Stove  L.     Pots,  pans, 
crockery,  etc.    Wood  beside  the  stove. 

[Enter  Betsey  with  large  market  basket,  wearing  a  shawl  and 
a  hood.  She  stands  in  doorway  and  speaks  to  some  one  near 
door.] 

WHAT  did  you  say,  ma'am ?  Late  again ?  Stayed  away  too 
long?  Now  that's  just  the  way  with  you!  The  side- 
walks are  one  glare  of  ice.  You  can  only  take  little  short  steps. 
No,  ma'am,  you  have  no  right  to  say  I  stay  out  long.  Dear 
knows,  I  should  like  to  see  the  girl  who  is  quicker  than  I  am.  Yes, 
other  girls,  I'm  well  aware,  stand  and  talk,  but  that's  not  my  way, 
heaven  forbid !  And  do  you  think  anybody  would  want  to  stand 
and  talk  in  such  cold  as  this?  I  am  only  too  glad  to  get  back 
to  the  house.  [Comes  in,  puts  down  basket,  takes  off  hood,  etc.] 
Well,  there  she  is  again  out  of  bed,  wrong  foot  first.  I  declare 
I  often  feel  as  though  a  car  horse  had  an  easy  place  compared  to 
a  poor  maid  of  all  work.  [Goes  to  stove  and  puts  in  wood.] 
Well,  the  fire  hasn't  gone  out,  the  water  will  soon  boil.  [Takes 
small  looking-glass  from  table  drawer.]  Dear,  dear;  I've  got  a 
red  nose  from  the  cold  and  the  wind  has  blown  my  hair  all  about 
my  face.  [Blozvs  on  her  fingers.]  Whew!  When  I  think  how 
that  poor  policeman  has  to  walk  up  and  down  his  beat,  half 
frozen — he's  on  duty  two  hours  in  this  fearful  cold.     Yes,  yes, 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.   32.  55 

policemen,  car  horses,  and  maids  of  all  work  lead  a  dog's  life. 
[Takes  from  basket  vegetables,  meat,  eggs,  fruit,  etc.] 

But  what  do  I  care  for  policemen  ?  They  are  a  faithless  set ! 
A  decent  girl  should  feel  no  pity  for  them  even  if  they  had  to  stay 
on  duty  four  hours.  When  I  think  of  Miller,  who  gave  me  up 
for  that  yellow-haired  Matilda — six  hours  wouldn't  hurt  Miller. 
Oh,  six  hours  of  such  cold — that's  too  much  to  wish  any 
one. 

[Takes  up  meat.]  Gracious,  there's  another  big  bone.  I  never 
noticed  it.  The  butcher  was  telling  me  all  about  his  sister's  little 
boy  that  tumbled  down  stairs,  and  all  the  time  the  good-for-noth- 
ing fellow  was  putting  in  that  bone !  Well,  Mistress  will  give  me 
another  scolding.  [Puts  meat  into  pot.]  I  can  hear  her  now: 
"You  let  them  put  you  off  with  anything !  You  take  whatever 
rubbish  they  choose  to  give  you !"  Well,  a  little  more  or  a  little 
less,  it  is  all  the  same.  I'm  sure  to  get  scolded  anyhow.  [Puts  on 
apron,  takes  vegetables  and  begins  to  clean  them.]  Bones  make 
good  soup,  and  she  must  have  good  soup.  Good  soup !  Tender 
meat !  Where  does  she  think  they  are  to  come  from  ?  Gracious, 
how  much  is  expected  from  one  animal!     [Bell  rings.] 

There  she  is  ringing  again !  I  never  have  a  moment's  peace. 
[Opens  door.]  Yes,  ma'am!  [Listens.]  How  much  did  the 
butter  cost  ?  Thirty  cents.  What  ?  Too  dear  ?  Dear  me,  ma'am, 
I  only  wonder  that  there  is  any  butter.  The  poor  cows  have  noth- 
ing to  eat.  The  butter-woman  doesn't  know  how  the  cows  are 
going  to  get  through  the  winter.  [Goes  back  to  vegetables.] 
That's  the  old  story ;  we  servants  always  pay  too  much.  The  mis- 
tresses can  always  buy  things  cheaper.  Well,  sometimes  that's 
true.  There's  Mrs.  Smith  can  bargain.  She'll  beat  a  poor  man, 
who  looks  as  if  he  were  starving,  down  to  almost  nothing,  and 
haggle  over  a  cent  with  him.  Of  course  I  don't  always  give  peo- 
ple as  much  as  they  ask  in  the  first  place,  but  it's  no  use  to  be 
so  stingy.  You  don't  want  to  skin  folks  alive !  And  Mrs.  Peters 
is  another!  She  has  prayer  meetings  at  her  house  and  she's  al- 
ways taking  up  collections  for  the  poor,  but  she'll  keep  Sarah 
Sempstress  waiting  a  month  for  the  few  dollars  she  owes  her. 


56  WERNER'S  READINGS 

There,  that  will  do !  Master  never  eats  any  fresh  vegetables 
but  macaroni,  so  there'll  be  plenty  left  for  me.  [Organ  heard 
outside.]  There  is  time  enough  for  the  pigeon,  but  I  must  mix 
the  pudding.  [Prepares  pudding  in  a  mold.]  Dear  me,  that's  the 
very  same  polka  he  played  two  weeks  ago  when  the  policeman  in- 
sisted upon  dancing  with  me,  and  John  wouldn't  let  him.  Now, 
it's  a  stupid  idea  to  think  that  you  must  dance  a  whole  evening 
with  One  person — a  little  change  is  always  agreeable — and  the 
policeman  was  a  "perfect  picture  of  a  man,"  as  mistress  would 
say;  but  then  John  is  jealous.  We  poor  girls  have  a  hard  time  of 
it,  sticking  in  the  kitchen  all  day  long.  Our  lovers  needn't  be 
afraid  we  shall  deceive  them ;  but  men,  men,  they  are  moving 
about  all  day,  here,  there,  and  everywhere,  and  who  knows  all 
they  do  ?  They  must  think  we're  blind  when  they  tell  us  they  are 
true  to  us.  To  be  sure,  I  can  trust  John.  He  is  faithful,  but  car- 
penters are  not  so  flighty  as  other  trades.  I  never  could  put  any 
faith  in  a  tailor ;  no,  no,  carpenters  are  the  best ;  there's  something 
so  solid  and  substantial  about  their  work.  And  then  John!  Well, 
he's  not  so  handsome  as  the  policeman,  but  still  he's  a  fine-looking 
fellow.  That  stupid  Nora  says  he  has  a  crooked  nose.  To  be  sure, 
it  does  turn  a  little  to  the  left,  but  what  difference  does  that  make  ? 
Suppose  his  nose  is  a  little  bit  crooked — we  all  have  crooked  noses, 
and  he's  got  a  good  pair  of  eyes  to  make  up  for  it.  Oh,  my,  when 
he  looks  at  me  and  says,  "Betsey,"  I  declare  I  can't  say  a  word. 

I  wonder  why  I  am  so  afraid  of  him  ?  Why,  really,  the  man 
ought  to  be  the  one  to  obey.  My  last  lover,  the  gardener,  and  my 
first  one,  the  policeman,  didn't  dare  to  wink  if  I  said  the  word ; 
but  I  don't  know  how  it  is,  I  can't  call  my  soul  my  own  when 
John's  here.  After  all,  he's  a  good  fellow  and  he'll  never  desert 
me.  The  others  were  good  talkers,  but  they  only  wanted  their 
fun,  and  so  I  had  to  get  rid  of  them.  Oh,  well,  it's  not  too  late 
for  me  yet ;  to  be  sure,  John  is  thirty-six — dear  me,  how  short 
youth  is  when  we  think  how  long  we've  got  to  live.  Other  girls 
get  married  at  twenty-five,  while  I — oh,  well,  it's  no  disgrace. 
Now  I  can  be  proud  of  John  and  he  shall  have  a  good  home  when 
I  am  his  wife—only  he  must  give  up  being  jealgus.    When  a  girl 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.   32.  57 

does  nothing  wrong  it  makes  her  sad  to  have  a  body  jealous,  and 
yet  I  do  like  to  see  him  look  miserable !  I  would  never  have  smiled 
at  the  policeman  if  I  hadn't  wanted  to  tease  John  a  little.  It  really 
wasn't  right,  but  then,  why  is  he  so  jealous?     {Bell  rings.] 

Well,  what  is  that  now?  [In  doorway.]  Yes,  ma'am.  What, 
put  vermicelli  in  the  soup?  I  can't.  Why  not?  Because  there 
isn't  any  in  the  house.  I  can  go  out  and  buy  some?  No,  that 
won't  do.  I  can't  leave  the  fire  now,  for  it  will  go  out.  I  will 
take  rice  instead.  What?  Oh,  master  will  eat  it  fast  enough,  or 
if  he  don't  like  it  he  can  just  leave  it  on  his  plate!    [Comes  in.] 

The  idea  of  me  going  out  again  in  this  weather !  What  does  it 
matter  to  master  whether  it's  vermicelli  or  rice  ?  Go  out  in  this 
wind,  indeed !  I  should  like  to  see  myself !  My  hair's  all  blown 
about  my  face  now.  [Takes  looking-glass  and  comb.]  Really, 
if  any  one  should  happen  in  I  should  look  like  a  fright.  John 
says  I  have  lovely  hair,  so  I  must  take  care  of  it. 

[Bell  rings.]  I  should  think  she  had  gone  crazy  to-day!  [In 
doorway.]  Yes,  ma'am!  You  want  me  to  come  and  lace  up  your 
dress?  I  can't  leave  the  kitchen  now.  What  did  you  say?  You 
know  I  am  combing  my  hair?  Oh,  ma'am,  how  can  you  think  of 
such  a  thing?  You  have  always  told  me  that  a  decent  girl  would 
never  comb  her  hair  in  the  kitchen  for  fear  of  getting  a  hair  in 
the  food — oh,  who  would  do  such  a  thing?  I  would  be  glad  to 
come,  but  I  have  just  been  making  the  pudding — my  hands  are  all 
over  flour  and  I  would  spoil  your  gown.  You'd  better  call  Miss 
Lucy;  she  can  lace  you  up.  [Comes  back  and  finishes  arranging 
hair.  ] 

How  suspicious  some  people  are.  Miss  Lucy  might  as  well  wait 
on  her  mother  a  little.  She  does  nothing  all  day  long  but  read 
and  play  on  the  piano.  I'm  called  out  of  the  kitchen  every  min- 
ute, and  then  if  anything  is  wrong  with  the  dinner  I  get  scolded 
for  it.  [Pokes  fire.]  I  only  wish  mistress  could  be  in  my  place 
for  a  few  days,  then  she'd  see  what  it  is  to  be  ordered  about. 
[Goes  to  table  and  takes  up  account  book.]  But  I  must  add  up 
my  accounts  or  else  I  shall  forget  something:  Spinach,  fifteen 
cents;  eggs,  thirty  cents;  h'm,  day  before  yesterday  eggs  were 


58  WERNER'S  READINGS 

thirty-two  cents;  I  may  just  as  well  call  them  thirty-two  now. 
No,  no,  I  wouldn't  do  it !  To  be  sure,  it  would  be  only  two  cents 
more;  mistress  would  never  notice  it  and  it  would  be  a  help  to 
me.  Other  girls  always  take  a  little  commission  and  they  laugh 
at  me  because  I  don't  do  the  same.  It  would  serve  mistress  right, 
for  she  never  trusts  me,  and  is  always  suspecting  something 
wrong — but  no,  no,  it's  not  right  and  I  won't  do  it.  John  says, 
"Ill-gotten  gains  never  prospered  any  one."  He  would  find  me 
out  in  a  minute  if — no,  no, — if  he  knew  it  and  were 'my  husband 
afterward,  he  would  never  trust  me — no,  no,  eggs,  thirty  cents — '■ 
I  must  make  the  thirty  very  plain ;  onions,  five  cents ;  lettuce,  ten 
cents ;  pigeons,  seventy-five  cents ;  butter,  thirty  cents ;  this  makes 
in  all  [counting  slowly] — five  and  five  make  ten,  and  five  are  fif- 
teen [bell  rings] — there's  the  bell  again — and  three  and  one  are 
four — I'm  coming! — and  seven  are  nine,  no,  eleven— gracious, 
I  should  think  the  house  was  on  fire !     [Goes  to  door.] 

Yes,  ma'am !  Why  didn't  I  come  before  ?  Well,  I  had  to  put 
down  what  I  had  in  my  hand.  You  want  a  cup  of  soup?  Then 
you'll  have  to  wait  half  an  hour;  it's  not  ready  yet.  What?  I 
ought  to  have  put  it  on  sooner  ?  Well,  how  could  I  when  I've  only 
just  got  back  from  market?  What?  Impudent?  How  am  I  im- 
pudent?   I  was  only  defending  myself!     [Comes  back.] 

And  now  she  has  slammed  the  door.  She  says  I  can  go  if  I  am 
not  satisfied.  She  says  that  every  day.  [Sits  down.]  Now,  I 
shall  have  to  begin  all  over  again.  Five  and  five  are  ten,  and  five 
are  fifteen — oh,  dear  me,  how  cross  she  does  make  me — and  three 
and  one  are  four — to  have  to  hear  that  every  day — and  seven  are 
eleven — it  seems  as  if  I  couldn't  stand  it — eleven,  eleven — I  often 
have  it  on  the  tip  of  my  tongue  to  say,  "Yes,  ma'am,  I  will  go," 
but  then  she  wouldn't  give  me  a  recommendation — eleven,  eleven 
— and  I  couldn't  get  another  place — eleve'n,  eleven — ladies  all 
stand  by  each  other  so — eleven,  eleven — and  we  poor  servants  are 
always  in  the  wrong — eleven,  eleven- — how  can  I  add  when  I'm 
so  put  out?  and  one  is  twelve — really,  if  it  wasn't  for  John!  and 
three  are  fifteen — for  he  says  that  in  two  years  he  will  be  able  to 
set  up  for  himself — and  one  is  sixteen — I  must  put  up  with  it  a 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.    32.  59 

little  longer — and  one  is  sixteen — oh,  dear,  two  years  more ;  how 
long  they  will  seem — and  one  is  sixteen  [mutters]  and  eight 
makes — makes — oh,  now  it's  all  wrong;  I  don't  know  what  I'm 
about.  Now  I  shall  have  to  begin  all  over.  Five  and  five  are  ten 
— hark,  didn't  I  hear  the  front  door  bell?  [Goes  to  door.]  Miss 
Lucy  went — the  postman  !  What  ?  For  me?  A  letter  for  me  ?  Five 
cents  extra  postage?  [Greatly  excited.]  Now,  where  is  my 
money  ?  A  letter !  To  be  sure  !  Now,  where  is — there,  there  are 
five  cents.  Good  morning,  good  morning.  [Gomes  back  with 
letter.  ] 

Good  gracious,  a  letter — for  me — that  is  too  queer.  Who  can 
have  written  to  me?  John  would  never  spend  his  money  on 
stamps — no,  no,  he  would  look  in  for  a  moment  after  supper. 
Whoever  can  have  written  to  me?  It  is  all  right — "Miss  Betsey 
Brown" — that's  my  name.  I  wonder  what  is  in  the  letter.  I  de- 
clare I'm  curious  to  know — heavens,  the  policeman  never  can 
have — well,  I  don't  know  what  to  think.  How  silly  I  am  !  I  might 
as  well  open  the  letter  and  then  I  shall  find  out  what  it's  all  about. 
There — but  what  a  pretty  seal — it  seems  a  pity  to  spoil  it — and 
yet  I  must  open  the  letter.  I  must  know  who  has  written  to  me. 
Oh,  bosh,  when  other  people  get  letters  they  don't  make  such  a 
fuss  over  them.     [Opens  letter  and  reads  laboriously.] 

"To  Miss  Betsey  Brown" — there  it  is  again — "On  the  twenty- 
fifth  day  of  the  present  month  Miss  Betsey  Andrews  departed  this 
life,  greatly  respected  by  all  who  knew  her,  and  left  you  in  her 
will  the  sum  of  five  hundred  dollars,  as  being  her  namesake." 
[Drops  letter  in  surprise.]  Good  heavens,  it  never  can  be  true. 
Old  Miss  Andrews !  Why,  I  thought  she  was  dead  long  ago.  No, 
it's  not  possible.  Where  is  the  letter?  [Picks  it  up  and  reads 
address.]  "Miss  Betsey  Brown,"  yes,  that's  all  right.  [Turns 
letter  upside  dozvn.]  What  does  it  say?  The  letters  dance  be- 
fore my  eyes — oh,  I  see,  I've  got  it  upside  down  [reads] — "left 
you  five  hundred  dollars  as  being  her  namesake."     [Bell  rings.] 

Yes,  it  is  really  true.  [Weeps.]  Five  hundred  dollars.  I  have 
five  hundred  dollars !  Old  Miss  Andrews !  I  had  quite  forgotten 
her.     It  must  be  twenty  years  since  I  saw  her.     Oh,  she  was  a 


60  WERNER'S  READINGS 

good  woman;  she  used  to  grumble  and  scold  all  day  long;  her  lit- 
tle poodle  dog  was  always  barking  at  me,  and  then  she  would  say 
that  I  must  have  looked  cross  at  him  and  she'd  give  me  a  scold- 
ing, good  old  woman!  [Bell  rings.]  Five  hundred  dollars!  But 
what  am  I  crying  about  ?  I  ought  to  laugh.  [More  and  more  ex- 
cited and  confused.]  Why,  what  was  I  doing?  To  be  sure,  the 
soup!  [Takes  spinach  and  throws  it  into  pot.]  Five  hundred 
dollars!    The  fire  doesn't  burn  bright.     [Puts  pigeons  into  iire.] 

Five  hundred  dollars  !  What  will  John  say  ?  What  was  I  look- 
ing for?  Oh,  yes,  I  must  clean  the  pigeons.  [Looks  around.] 
Where  did  I  put  the  pigeons?  Oh,  what  will  John  say?  He  told 
me  once  that  if  he  had  five  hundred  dollars  he  could  set  up  for 
himself — where  are  those  pigeons?  and  I  shall  be  a  master  car- 
penter's wife.  [Bell  rings.]  John,  oh  dear,  good  John — but  he 
shall  make  a  nice  cross  for  poor  Miss  Andrews's  grave.  If  I  only 
knew  where  I  put  the  pigeons !  John !  I  must  tell  him  at  once ! 
But,  there's  the  dinner ;  no,  I  can't  go  now ;  I  must  cook  the 
spinach.  Where  is  the  spinach?  [Bell  rings.]  I  think  the  bell 
rang !  Well,  she  may  bother  me  as  much  as  she  likes  to-day,  noth- 
ing can  make  me  angry  now.  [Bell  rings.]  Yes,  yes.  [Goes  to 
door.] 

Yes,  ma'am  !  Why  don't  I  answer  ?  Well,  here  I  am  !  What  ? 
Impudent?  I  didn't  say  anything,  I'm  sure.  Go  about  my  busi- 
ness? [Aside.]  If  I  wasn't  afraid — but  why  should  I  care  now? 
Haven't  I  got  five  hundred  dollars?  Very  well,  ma'am,  I  will. 
What  ?  Do  I  mean  to  leave  you  ?  I  can  go  at  once  ?  Very  well, 
I  will  go.  As  soon  as  dinner  is  done,  I  will  pack  up  my  things. 
[Slams  the  door.]  There,  ma'am,  if  you  can  play  a  trump,  so  can 
I.  But  the  dinner.  Where  on  earth  are  the  pigeons  and  the 
spinach  ?  Oh,  I  am  free — and  I  must  tell  John !  I  can't  wait  until 
evening!  [Takes  off  apron  hastily.]  I  shall  be  back  before  the 
soup  is  ready.  John !  How  pleased  he  will  be !  [Runs  out,  but 
turns  back.]  The  letter !  I  must  show  it  to  him  !  Oh,  where  is  the 
letter  ?  Here  it  is !  John,  John,  how  happy  we  shall  be !  [Runs 
off.] 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.   32.  61 

TOM    FAY'S    SOLILOQUY. 


Comedy  Romantic  Monologue  for  a  Man. 


FANNY   FERN. 


Arranged  as  a  monologue  expressly  for  this  book. 


Character  Represented  :     Tom  Fay,  Speaker. 

Costume  :    Home  costume. 

Stage  Setting:  Handsomely  furnished  room,  doors  R.  and  L. 
Large  easy  chair  C. 

Scene  :  Enter  Tom  Fay,  smoking  cigar.  Takes  several  puffs 
as  he  crosses  room  and  flings  himself  into  chair.  Puffs  a  while 
in  silence,  listens,  then  repeats  what  he  seems  to  have  heard. 

"Most  any  female  lodger  up  a  stair 
Occasions  thought  in  him  who  lodges  under." 

DON'T  they,  though?  Not  a  deuced  thing  have  I  been  able 
to  do  since  that  little  Gipsy  took  the  room  overhead,  about 
a  week  ago !  Pat — pat — pat,  go  those  little  feet  over  the  floor, 
till  I  am  as  nervous  as  a  cat  in  a  china  closet.  Confounded  pretty 
they  are,  too,  for  I  caught  sight  of  'em  going  upstairs.  Then  I 
can  hear  her  little  rocking-chair  creak,  as  she  sits  there  sewing, 
and  she  keeps  singing,  "Love  not — love  not!"  Just  as  if  a  fellow 
could  help  it.     [Sits  in  chair.] 

Wish  she  wasn't  quite  so  pretty;  it  makes  me  decidedly  uncom- 
fortable. Wonder  if  she  has  any  great  six-footer  of  a  brother, 
or  a  cousin  with  a  sledge-hammer  fist.  Wish  I  was  her  washer- 
woman, or  the  nigger  who  brings  her  breakfast ;  wish  she'd  faint 
away  on  the  stairs ;  wish  the  house  would  catch  fire  to-night ! 
Here  I  am,  in  this  great  barn  of  a  room,  all  alone ;  chairs  and 
things  set  up  square  against  the  wall ;  no  little  feminine  fixin's 
'round  ;  I  shall  have  to  buy  a  second-hand  bonnet,  or  a  pair  of  little 
gaiter-boots,  to  cheat  myself  into  the  delusion  that  there's  two 


62  WERNER'S  READINGS 

of  us !  Wish  that  little  Gipsy  wasn't  as  shy  as  a  rabbit.  I  can't 
meet  her  on  the  stairs  if  I  die  for  it;  I've  upset  my  inkstand  a 
dozen  times,  hopping  up,  when  I  thought  I  heard  her  coming. 

Wonder  if  she  knows,  when  she  sits  vegetating  there,  that 
Shakespeare,  or  Sam  Slick,  or  somebody,  says,  that  "happiness 
is  born  a  twin"  ?  'Cause  if  she  doesn't,  I'm  the  missionary  that  will 
enlighten  her.  Wonder  if  she  earns  her  living,  poor  little  soul ! 
It's  time  I  had  a  wife,  by  Christopher !  Sitting  there  pricking  her 
pretty  little  fingers  with  that  murderous  needle  !  If  she  were  sewing 
on  my  dickeys  it  would  be  worth  while  now !  [Jumps  up.]  That's 
it — by  Jove !  I'll  get  her  to  make  me  some  dickeys — don't  want 
'em  any  more  than  Satan  wants  holy  water,  but  that's  neither  here 
nor  there. 

I  shall  insist  upon  her  taking  the  measure  of  my  throat — 
[laugh].  Bachelors  have  a  right  to  be  fussy.  There's  a  pretty 
kettle  of  fish,  now ;  either  she'll  have  to  stand  on  a  stool  or  I  shall 
have  to  get  on  my  knees  to  her!  [Laugh.]  Solomon  himself 
couldn't  fix  anything  better;  deuce  take  me,  if  I  couldn't  say  the 
right  thing  then!  This  fitting  dickeys  is  a  work  of  time,  too. 
Dickeys  aren't  to  be  gotten  up  in  a  hurry.  [Bell  rings.]  Hello! 
there's  the  door-bell !  [Noise  outside  of  trunk  being  throzvn  from 
wagon  to  sidewalk.  Tom  goes  to  window,  looks  out.]  There's  a 
great  big  trunk  dumped  down  in  the  entry!  [Voice  outside:  "Is 
Mrs.  Legare  at  home?"] 

Is — Mrs. — Legare  at  home?  M-r-s. — Legare?  I  like  that, 
now!  Have  I  been  in  love  a  whole  week  with  M-r-s.  Legare? 
Never  mind,  maybe  she's  a  widow !  [Noise  outside  of  some  one 
walking.]  Tramp,  tramp,  come  those  masculine  feet;  [looks  out 
of  window]  handsome  fellow,  too!  [Opens  door  R.  and  listens.] 
Ne-b-u-c-h-a-d-n-ezzar ! — If  I  ever  heard  a  kiss  in  my  life,  I  heard 
one  then  !  I  won't  stand  it ! — it's  an  invasion  of  my  rights.  Guess 
I'll  listen  again — [same  business].  My  dear  husband! — p-h-e-w  ! 
As  I'm  a  sinner!    [Listens  again.] 

What  right  have  sea-captains  on  shore,  I'd  like  to  know?  Con- 
found it  all !  Well,  I  always  knew  women  weren't  worth  thinking 
of;  [sits  in  chair  C]  a  set  of  deceitful  little  monkeys ;  changeable 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.   32.  63 

as  a  rainbow,  superficial  as  parrots,  as  full  of  tricks  as  a  conjurer, 
stubborn  as  mules,  vain  as  peacocks,  noisy  as  magpies,  and  full  of 
the  "old  Harry"  all  the  time!  There's  "Delilah,"  now;  didn't  she 
take  the  "strength"  out  of  "Samson?" — and  wasn't  "Sisera"  and 
"Judith"  born  fiends?  And  didn't  the  little  minx  of  a  "Herodias" 
dance  "John  the  Baptist's"  head  off  ?  Didn't  "Sarah"  raise  "Cain" 
with  "Abraham,"  till  he  oacked  "Hagar"  off?  Then  there  was — 
well,  the  least  said  about  her  the  better,  but  didn't  "Eve,"  the  fore- 
mother  of  the  whole  concern,  have  one  talk  too  many  with  the 
old  serpent?  Of  course;  she  didn't  do  anything  else!  Glad  I 
never  set  my  young  affections  on  any  of  'em ! 

Where's  my  cigar-case?     How  tormented    hot    this    room   is! 
[Business  of  lighting  cigar  as  curtain  falls.] 


JACK'S  SECOND  TRIAL. 


ROY   FARRELL   GREEN. 


THE  second  time  that  Jack  proposed 
'Twas  really  a  surprise, 
Though  still  I — gossips  so  supposed — 

Found  favor  in  his  eyes. 
His  first  avowal,  months  before, 

I'd  treated  with  disdain, 
And  laughed  at  him  the  while  he  swore 
He'd  surely  try  again. 

The  second  time  that  Jack  proposed 

I  never  said  a  word, 
Though  to  assent  I'd  grown  disposed — 

I  simply  overheard 
By  accident  his  earnest  plea 

While  in  the  waltz's  whirl ; 
The  second  time  'twas  not  to  me. 

But  to  another  girl ! 


WERNER'S  READINGS 


I  AND    MY    FATHER-IN-LAW. 


Comedy   Monologue  for  a  Woman. 


HARRIET  L.  PEMBERTON. 


Character:    The  Wife,  Speaker,  present;    Servant,  supposed 
to  be  within  hearing  later  on. 

Costume  :    House  dress. 

Properties  :    Letter ;  call-bell. 

Scene  :    Comfortably  furnished  room.    Wife  pacing  the  room. 

I  KNEW  it  must  come  to  this  at  last !  Jack  and  I  have  had  a 
row,  and  with  all  the  meanness  of  a  man  he  has  managed  to 
get  the  last  word  by  bouncing  out  of  the  room  and  banging  the 
door.  And  all  for  what,  if  you  please?  All  for  just  nothing  at 
all.  But  that's  always  the  way.  Everything  is  always  about 
nothing.  Just  because — what  do  you  think — simply  because — 
merely  because — I've  overdrawn  my  account  for  the  third  time 
in  the  last  twelve-month !  The  first  time  it  occurred  he  paid  up 
like  a  man  and  placed  a  fresh  sum  to  my  credit.  The  next  time 
he  grumbled  like  a  man ;  but  when  I  said :  "Jack,  dear,  do  it  the 
second  time,"  he  did  it  the  second  time.  And  now  that  it  has  oc- 
curred again  he  has  been  swearing — like  a  man ;  oh,  very  like  a 
man !  and  when  I  began :  "Jack,  darling,  do  it  the  third  time,"  he 
replied  he'd  be  hanged  if  he  would !  It  was  in  vain  I  argued  that 
I  must  dress,  must  give  to  charities,  must  have  everything  I  want. 
He  answered  that  I  must  cut  my  coat  according  to  my  cloth,  and 
that  charity  ought  to  begin  at  home,  and  all  those  ridiculous  old 
platitudes  which  people  always  fall  back  upon  when  they're  angry. 
And  then  he  bounced  out  of  the  room  and  his  last  words  were : 
"It's  no  use  my  talking.  I  shall  send  my  father  to  you  and  perhaps 
he'll  be  able  to  make  you  listen  to  reason." 

[Flings  herself  into  a  chair.']      Oh!   I'm  the  most  miserable 
of  women !    I've  quarreled  with  Jack ;  I've  not  got  a  sixpence ; 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.    32.  65 

and  Sir  John  is  coming  to  make  me  listen  to  reason !  I  don't 
want  to  listen  to  reason,  I  don't  want  to  see  Sir  John !  I  can 
manage  Jack  all  right  by  myself,  but  Sir  John  terrifies  me  out  of 
my  senses.  The  first  time  he  came  to  see  us  after  we  were  mar- 
ried, he  asked  me  if  I  kept  a  meat-book ;  and  he  hoped  I  should 
always  be  content  with  a  lowr  rate  of  interest  for  my  money.  I 
said :  "Dear  Sir  John,  I  will  never  condescend  to  anything  low, 
I  like  all  things  high — high  game,  high  steppers,  high  rate  of  in- 
terest." I  believe  he  observed  after  that  he  was  afraid  I  was 
flippant,  and  he  trusted  Jack  wouldn't  find  out  that  he  had  made 
a  very  poor  bargain.  And  this  is  the  man  who  is  coming  to  make 
me  listen  to  reason ! 

Hush!  there's  the  bell!  [Listens.]  Surely,  he  can't  be  coming 
already.  No;  I  don't  think  it  was  the  front  door-bell  after  all. 
It  was  only  the  muffin-man.  Now,  how  shall  I  take  Sir  John?  I 
think  I'll  try  the  pathetic,  on  my  knees- — so  [kneels],  hands 
clasped — so  [clasps  hands].  "Yes,  I  know  !  I  know !  call  me  any- 
thing you  please — foolish,  idiotic,  mad  as  a  hundred  hatters — I'm 
all  that  and  worse!  I've  nothing  to  say  for  myself;  I've  nothing 
to  plead  as  an  excuse.  But  consider  my  youth,  consider  my  in- 
experience, consider  the  atmosphere  in  which  I  was  brought  up ! 
Why,  in  my  family  we  were  taught  to  chuck  away  dollars  as  if 
they  were  pennies ;  taught,  think  of  that !  Oh  !  instead  of  gazing 
at  me  with  that  stern  countenance,  take  me  and  teach  me  to  do 
better.  You  could  teach  me  if  you  would ;  and  I — I  would  learn, 
oh,  so  willingly !"  Here  I  shall  break  down  utterly,  so  [collapses 
o'n  floor] .  And  then  he  will  take  me  by  the  two  hands — so  [ex- 
tends hands] — and  raise  me  up  tenderly — so  [rises  slowly  to  her 
feet] — and  kiss  me  kindly  on  both  cheeks — so  [movement  as  if 
she  zvere  being  kissed] — and  then  he  will  say:  "Bless  you,  my 
dear  child ;"  and  so  the  victory  will  remain  with  me.  Yes ;  only 
I  can't  quite  fancy  Sir  John  blessing  me. 

Hush!  there's  the  bell.  [Listens.]  It  is  the  front  door  this 
time.  He's  really  coming.  [Stands  zvaiting.]  No.  He  doesn't 
seem  to  be  coming  after  all.  I  wonder  who  it  is.  [Looks  out  of 
tvindozv.]     Only  old  Lady  Alicia  leaving  her  cards!    Now,  how 


66  WERNER'S  READINGS 

shall  J  take  Sir  John?  [Reflects.]  I  think  I  shall  try  the  indig- 
nant, very  upright,  so  [draws  herself  up] — head  well  back,  so 
[throws  head  back].  "Let  me  tell  you,  Sir  John,  once  for  all, 
that  I  am  not  accustomed  to  be  addressed  in  such  terms  as  foolish, 
idiotic,  much  less  as  mad  as  a  hundred  hatters;  and  I  must  insist 
— yes,  I  must  insist — on  your  giving  me  the  explanation  I  have  a 
right  to  expect.  When  i — no,  don't  interrupt  me,  please — when 
I  did  your  son  the  honor  of  marrying  him,  it  was  on  the  distinct 
understanding  that  I  was  to  do  as  I  liked.  In  my  family  we  un- 
derstand the  value  of  money  every  bit  as  well  as  you,  only  we 
understand  it  in  a  somewhat  different  way.  But  if  the  manner 
of  my  upbringing  was  to  be  flung  in  my  teeth  as  a  cause  of  com- 
plaint, you  should  have  had  it  put  in  the  settlements.  As  this  was 
not  done,  neither  my  husband  nor  my  father-in-law  has  any  right 
to  call  my  conduct  in  question,  and  that  there  may  be  no  mistake, 
I  take  this  opportunity  of  putting  my  foot  down  at  once."  Here  I 
shall  stamp  my  foot  [stamps].  Sir  John's  breath  will  be  quite 
taken  away,  he  will  spread  out  his  hands  in  a  deprecating  kind  of 
way,  so  [spreads  out  hands] — and  will  murmur  hurriedly:  "My 
dear  lady,  I  assure  you  I  meant  nothing  of  the  kind."  And  the 
victory  will  remain  with  me.  Yes ;  only  I  can't  quite  fancy  Sir 
John's  breath  being  taken  away. 

Hush!  there's  the  bell.  This  must  be  he.  [Listens.]  He's 
had  plenty  of  time  to  get  Jack's  message.  [Stands  waiting.]  No; 
he  doesn't  seem  to  be  coming  after  all.  I  suppose  it  was  only  the 
post.  Now,  how  shall  I  take  Sir  John?  [Reflects.]  I  think — 
yes,  I  know,  I'll  try  the  familiar  and  the  pert.  Throw  myself  into 
a  chair,  so  [throzvs  herself  into  a  chair] — look  at  him  archly,  so 
[looks  over  shoulder].  "You  know  you  don't  mean  it,  really. 
You  were  never  hard  upon  a  woman  in  your  life,  Sir  John.  I'm 
sure  you  never  were.  Now  look  here ;  it's  no  use  pretending  that 
you're  not  like  the  rest  of  them.  You  like  to  see  a  pretty  woman 
well  dressed.  Nonsense !  don't  talk  to  me ;  of  course  you  do !  A 
man  of  your  taste  and  all.  Eh?  Aha!  I've  found  you  out  "  Here 
I  shall  shake  my  finger  at  him,  so  [shakes  finger].  "And  I'm  not 
a  bit  afraid  of  you,  you  know,  not  a  bit.    No ;  I  never  was ;  from 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.   32.  67 

the  very  first  I  always  thought  you  and  I  would  understand  each 
other.  And  I'm  sure  we  do,  don't  we,  perfectly  ?  Now,  give  me  a 
kiss  and  let's  make  up.  That's  right.  I'm  sure  you  feel  better 
now,  don't  you?"  If  I  had  a  fan  I  should  tap  him  with  it  here. 
Then  Sir  John  will  chuck  me  under  the  chin,  so  [chucks  herself 
under  chin] — and  call  me  "a  little  puss!"  And  so  the  victory  will 
remain  with  me.  [Rises.]  Yes ;  only  I  can't  quite  fancy  Sir  John 
chucking  me  under  the  chin,  or  calling  me  "a  little  puss." 

Hush  !  there's  somebody  coming  upstairs.  It  must  be  he.  There 
can't  be  any  mistake  this  time.  I  hear  the  tramp  of  feet !  [Stands 
waiting.]  No;  it's  only  the  servant.  [Turns  as  if  addressing 
some  one  at  the  door.]  What  is  it?  A  letter?  Give  it  to  me. 
[A  letter  is  handed  in  to  her;  continues  as  if  still  addressing  some- 
one at  door.]  What?  I  can't  hear  what  you  say.  A  gentleman 
wants  to  know  if  I  will  see  him  ?  Didn't  he  give  his  name  ?  What  ? 
He  didn't  give  his  name  because  he  said  I  would  understand? 
[Aside.]  Yes,  of  course,  I  understand.  Why  didn't  you  say  I 
was  not  at  home  ?  What  ?  I  hadn't  given  any  orders.  Well,  say 
I'm  very  sorry,  but  I  can't  see  any  one  this  afternoon.  What  ?  I 
wish  you  would  speak  a  little  more  distinctly.  Very  particular? 
Yes,  I  know  he's  very  particular;  that's  why  I  don't  want  to  see 
him.  Say  I'm  very  sorry,  but  I  can't  see  any  one  this  afternoon. 
That  will  do. 

[To  herself  again.]  I  wonder  if  he'll  take  offence  at  such  a 
message.  It's  rather  a  dreadful  thing  to  say  to  one's  father-in- 
law.  Falls  rather  flat,  too,  after  the  way  in  which  I  meant  to  re- 
ceive him.  [While  talking  she  opens  letter.]  Hullo!  why,  what 
in  the  name  of  fortune  is  this?  [Reads.]  "Dear  Madam, — We 
have  the  honor  to  inform  you  that,  under  the  will  of  the  late  Mr. 
Puffin,  you  are  become  entitled  to  fifteen  thousand  pounds,  free 
of  legacy  duty,  which  will  be  paid  into  your  account,  so  soon  as 
the  necessary  formalities  have  been  gone  through.  One  of  our 
firm  will  wait  upon  you  with  this  letter  to  take  any  instructions 
you  may  have  to  make.  We  remain,  Madam,  yours  obediently, 
Brown,  Jones  &  Robinson." 

Dear  old  Mr.  Puffin !   I  lent  him  a  hymn-book  once  in  church. 


68  WERNER'S  READINGS 

and  he  always  said  he  would  remember  me  in  his  will;  but,  of 
course,  I  never  thought  he  would.  Fifteen  thousand  pounds ! 
Now,  let  Sir  John  come  and  make  me  listen  to  reason !  I  shall 
know  how  to  take  him.  [Walks  round  triumphantly,  brandishing 
letter;  stops  suddenly.]  One  of  the  firm  would  call.  Then  it  was 
one  of  the  firm  who  wanted  to  see  me.  Oh,  dear !  Oh,  dear !  I 
hope  my  message  wasn't  given  correctly.  Don't  want  to  see  him ; 
of  course  I  want  to  see  him  most  particularly.  Perhaps  he's  not 
gone  yet;  I'd  better  go  down  myself  and  see.  [Exits  in  a  great 
hurry.] 


DEPOSED. 


I'SE  a  poor  'ittle  sowwowful  bady, 
An'  B'idget's  away  down  'tairs ! 
De  kitten  have  sc'atched  my  finger, 
An'  my  Dolly  'on't  say  her  pwayers ! 

I'se  jus'  dot  a  'ittle  new  buzzer — 
Dod  jus'  sent  him  down  tozzer  day — 

He  kies  and  he  kies  so  dwedful, 
I  'iss  Dod  'ood  take  him  away ! 

I  ain't  seen  my  bootiful  mamma 

Since  ever  so  Ion'  adoe, 
An'  I  ain't  her  own  darlin'est  bady 

No  londer,  'tause  B'idget  says  so. 

O,  I'se  a  poor  'ittle  sowwowful  bady — 
An'  B'idget's  away  down  'tairs ! 

De  kitten  have  sc'atched  my  finger, 
An'  my  Dolly  'on't  say  her  pwayers ! 


AND    RECITATIONS   NO.    32.  69 

WHEN    DAD    ENJOYED    HIMSELF. 


Comedy  Monologue  for  Small  Boy. 


[Boy  enters  and  begins  to  talk  when  he  gets  near  stage  front."] 

I  WISH  I  had  known  my  dad  when  he  was  a  kid,  instead  of 
knowing  him  now  when  he's  growly  most  of  the  time.  He 
was  the  real  thing. 

I  know  it  because  I  heard  dad's  mother,  that's  my  grand- 
mother, whisper  to  my  mother,  "Why,  John  was  a  regular  little 
devil  when  he  was  a  boy.  He  was  just  full  of  fun  and  I  can't  see 
for  the  life  of  me  what  makes  him  so  glum  all  the  time  now." 

Ma  said  she  knew  it  and  that  the  old  man  was  jolly  enough 
when  he  was  courting  her.  She  didn't  say  "old  man"  of  course, 
but  that's  what  she  meant  all  right,  because  I've  heard  her  say 
lots  of  times  that  dad's  the  only  man  that  ever  courted  her,  and 
then  dad  always  says  that  she's  the  only  girl  he  ever  courted. 

Then  ma  says :  "Well,  you're  glad  you're  married  ?"  as  if  she 
kinder  didn't  think  so,  and  dad  always  says,  "Of  course.  Are 
you  ?"  And  ma  says,  "I  guess  I  am,"  with  a  lot  of  ginger  in  her 
voice. 

Well,  when  they  tell  each  other  that  they're  glad  they're  mar- 
ried anyhow,  that's  usually  the  end  of  the  first  round.  I  always 
know  just  what  dad's  going  to  say  next.  He  says,  "What  we  need 
is  a  little  real  fun,"  and  ma  says,  "That's  so.  What  shall  we  do?" 
Ma's  just  dying  to  go  to  the  theatre  or  the  opera,  but  the  old  man 
can't  seem  to  catch  on.  He  blurts  right  out  the  first  thing  when  ma 
says  where  will  they  go  with  saying  that  they  must  go  somewhere 
in  the  country. 

The  next  thing  dad  does  is  to  get  out  a  lot  of  old  maps.  Maps  is 
the  only  thing  he's  really  stuck  on.  He  pretends  that  he  only  uses 
'em  to  pick  out  a  place  to  go  to  and  I  s'pose  he  really  thinks  that's 
what  he's  doing,  but  tain't  so.  His  fun  is  just  in  looking  at  'em. 
Why,  dad  and  ma  have  traveled  millions  of  miles  on  those  maps, 
sitting  on  the  couch,  but  that's  the  only  way  they  get  anywhere. 

He'll  begin  by  asking  ma  how  she'd  like  Nova  Scotia,  for  in- 


70  WERNER'S   READINGS 

stance.  She  says  'twould  be  lovely.  Then  he's  just  mean  enough 
to  pretend  Nova  Scotia  is  her  idea  and  he'll  say :  "Well,  if  you 
are  set  on  going  there,  I'll  get  a  month's  vacation  and  we'll  try  it. 
I  guess  'twould  do  us  good." 

Then  dad  measures  off  places  in  Nova  Scotia  with  a  pencil  and 
lays  the  pencil  down  on  that  little  line  in  the  corner  with  little 
feelers  on  it  that  looks  like  a  worm  on  its  back,  to  see  how  many 
miles  off  one  place  is  from  another.  If  it's  less  than  a  hundred 
miles  he  says :  "Now,  it  would  be  very  interesting  to  walk  that 
distance  and  see  the  country.  How  would  you  like  to  take  a 
tramping  trip  ?"  And  ma  says  it  would  be  lovely,  if  her  feet  didn't 
trouble  her  so. 

That  usually  makes  the  old  man  a  little  glummer  than  he  was 
before.  Then  he  starts  out  something  about  riding  and  begins  to 
figure  out  the  fares  and  the  time-tables. 

Well,  when  dad  gets  to  figuring  ma  slips  into  my  room,  and 
yawns.  Then  she  goes  back  and  asks  him  if  he  thinks  they  can 
afford  it.  She  just  does  that  to  keep  the  fun  going,  for  it  starts 
him  right  off  on  another  hour's  figuring  to  see  how  much  money 
he'll  earn  the  next  six  months  and  how  much  he'll  spend. 

But  after  dad  has  had  the  fun  of  figuring  up  what  he's  made 
last  year  and  dividing  that  by  fifty-two,  he  multiplies  that  by 
twenty-four  weeks  of  the  next  six  months  and  subtracts  a  lot  of 
things  from  that.  What's  left  is'  for  Nova  Scotia,  and  he  gets 
real  hopeful. 

But  the  other  day  dad  tried  to  have  real  fun.  Ma  suggested 
that  it  might  do  him  good  to  go  to  a  real  funny  show  without  her 
or  me  to  look  after.  He  said  kind  of  mournful  that  he  was  afraid 
there  might  be  a  reaction  after  a  funny  show.  Ma  said  "Non- 
sense !"  so  dad  went  to  the  theatre. 

I  sneaked  down  the  fire-escape  with  fifty  cents  out  of  the  ice 
money  to  follow  him,  for  I'd  risk  any  kind  of  a  licking  to  see  dad 
really  cut  loose  and  laugh.  I  had  a  quarter  besides  for  carfare. 
First  he  walked  up  and  down  in  front  of  half  a  dozen  theatres.  I 
suppose  he  was  trying  to  decide  which  one  to  go  to.  I  went  on 
the  other  side  of  the  street  behind  a  lot  of  cabs  and  kept  my  eye 


AND  RECITATlbNS  NO.   32.  7* 

on  him.  Finally  he  went  in  downstairs  to  a  high-priced  seat. 
That's  just  like  dad,  and  he  talks  more  about  saving  money,  his 
ma  says,  than  any  man  she  knows. 

I  went  up  in  nigger  heaven  and  got  in  the  front  row  where  I 
could  look  over.  It  took  me  most  ten  minutes  to  pick  out  the  old 
man.  He's  getting  bald,  and  the  top  of  his  head  looks  just  like 
the  top  of  any  other  head  a  mile  away.  It  seemed  like  a  mile  up 
there,  anyway. 

I  kept  looking  from  the  folks  on  the  stage  to  dad  and  back 
again,  'cause  I  wanted  to  see  the  show  myself  and  see  the  old  man 
laugh  too.  But  he  didn't  move  and  he  didn't  clap,  and  I  lost  half 
the  show  watching  him  for  nothing  until  pretty  soon  there  was 
an  awful  racket  and  smash  behind  the  scenes  and  a  big  dummy  in 
a  yellow  overcoat  shot  head  first  across  the  back  of  the  stage  and 
landed  with  an  awful  thump  on  the  other  side.  And  in  about 
two  seconds  in  walked  a  little  short  fat  man  with  a  yellow  coat  on, 
just  like  the  dummy's,  and  an  automobile  cap.  He  let  on  that  he 
was  the  dummy  we  had  just  seen  and  said  that  he  was  full  of 
gasoline  after  the  explosion.  Well,  you'd  thought  every  one  in 
that  theatre  was  going  to  bust  laughing  and  in  a  minute  after 
everybody  else  had  got  their  laugh  started  I  heard  a  yell  down- 
stairs. There  was  dad  with  his  head  so  far  back  that  I  could  see 
his  eyes  and  the  end  of  his  whiskers  going  up  and  down,  and  he 
was  slapping  the  arms  of  his  chair  with  both  hands. 

Then  I  yelled  and  everybody  downstairs  was  looking  at  dad 
and  everybody  upstairs  was  looking  at  me.  You  couldn't  stop 
the  old  man  after  that.  He  let  out  enough  laugh  for  a  whole  year, 
and  I'd  have  swiped  another  fifty  cents  just  to  have  had  ma  with 
me  there  to  see  him. 

After  the  show  he  forgot  all  about  going  to  cheap  restaurants 
to  save  money  for  Nova  Scotia,  but  braced  right  into  a  swell  place. 
I  was  hungry,  too,  so  I  sneaked  into  the  same  place  so  I  could 
keep  an  eye  on  dad. 

First  he  had  something  yellowish  to  drink  with  a  round  red 
thing  in  it.  I  think  he  grinned  again,  after  he  put  that  down,  but 
I  ain't  sure.    Then  he  had  some  raw  clams  and  pretty  soon  a  great 


72  WERNER'S  READINGS 

big  platter  of  something  with  a  silver  cover  on  top  and  a  silver 
pail  with  some  ice  and  a  bottle  in  it.  He  looked  pleasant  enough 
to  have  his  picture  taken. 

I  slipped  out  and  waited  across  the  street  for  dad.  It  seemed 
like  an  hour  before  he  came  out.  He  took  the  first  car  that  came 
along  and  we  got  on  the  same  ferry-boat. 

Then  the  funniest  thing  happened  you  ever  heard  of.  There 
weren't  any  wagons  on  that  boat  and  nobody  in  the  middle  part 
for  horses.  I'll  be  hanged  if  dad  didn't  go  in  there  all  alone  and 
begin  saying  over  some  of  the  funny  things  they  had  said  at  the 
show.  Then  he  whistled  some  rag-time  and  kept  kicking  up  and 
dancing  back  and  forth  across  the  boat  like  they  did  in  the  show. 

I  thought  I  would  bust  then,  but  the  best  of  all  was  when  dad 
took  a  run  and  fell  down  head  first  on  purpose  just  like  a  fellow 
sliding  for  a  base.  He  was  practising  doing  what  the  dummy 
in  the  yellow  coat  did.  Then  the  boat  bumped  into  the  slip  and 
dad  went  right  past  me.  I  heard  him  kinder  talking  to  himself 
and  saying  he  guessed  he  could  be  funny  and  cheerful  'round  the 
house  if  he  tried. 

I  heard  dad  and  ma  talking  in  their  room  that  night,  but 
couldn't  hear  what  they  said,  only  I  heard  'em  both  laugh,  and  was 
tickled  to  death.   But  dad's  whole  plan  was  ruined  in  the  morning. 

Ma  and  me  got  to  the  table  first,  as  usual,  and  waited  for  dad. 
We  heard  him  whistling  in  the  other  room,  trying  to  work  up 
gradual,  I  suppose,  to  being  real  lively.  Ma  looked  pleased  as 
pie.  In  a  minute  dad  came  through  the  hall  and  just  as  he  reached 
the  dining-room  he  gave  a  yell  and  fell  flat. 

It  was  the  dummy  trick,  and  I  roared.  Ma  gave  me  a  cuff  and 
kneeled  right  down  on  the  floor  side  of  dad  and  said :  "Oh,  John, 
are  you  hurt?" 

She  couldn't  have  said  a  worse  thing.  Her  game  was  to  laugh 
when  dad  tried  so  hard  as  that  to  be  funny,  but  he  hadn't  tipped 
her  off,  because  he  wanted  to  surprise  her.  So,  when  she  asked 
if  he  was  hurt,  he  just  said-  "No,"  solemn  as  an  owl  and  went  to 
the  table. 

It  was  the  glummest  breakfast  we  ever  had. 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.    32.  73 

LAUGHING   AND    CRYING. 


Comedy  Monologue  for   Man  or  Woman. 


G.    A.   LANDRUM. 


Arranged  as  monologue  and   business  given   expressly  for  this  book  by 

Howell  L.  Finer. 


LAUGHING. 
[Enter  stage  laughing  heartily  and  address  conversation  en- 
tirely to  audience. ] 

I  WOULD  be  willing  to  choose  my  friend  by  the  quality  of  his 
laugh.  [Give  a  glad,  gushing  laugh.]  A  clear,  ringing  note 
of  soul  [give  it]  as  surely  indicates  a  genial  and  genuine  nature 
as  the  rainbow  in  the  dewdrop  heralds  the  beautiful  day. 

A  laugh  is  one  of  God's  truths.  [Laugh  heartily.]  It  tolerates 
no  disguises.  [Laugh  very  cordially.]  A  falsehood  may  train  the 
voice  to  flow  in  softest  cadences  [laugh  characteristically],  the 
face  to  wreathe  into  smiles  of  surpassing  sweetness  [give  broad 
smile],  to  put  on  the  look  we  trust  in,  but  the  mockery  becomes 
apparent  to  the  careful  observer. 

Who  has  not  started  and  .shuddered  at  the  hollow  "He  !  he  !  he  !" 
of  some  velvet-voiced  Mephistopheles  ?  Leave  nature  alone. 
[Laugh  very  heartily,  giving  some  variations  from  preceding 
laughs.]  If  she  is  noble,  her  broadest  expression  will  soon  tone 
itself  down  to  fine  accordance  with  life's  real  earnestness.  If  she 
is  base,  no  silken  interweaving  can  keep  out  of  sight  her  ugly  head 
of  discord. 

Laugh  if  you  want  to  live  well.  [Laugh  heartily.]  He  only 
exists  who  drags  his  days  after  him  like  a  massive  chain,  asking 
sympathy  with  uplifted  brows  as  the  beggar  asks  alms.  Better 
die  for  your  own  sake  and  for  the  world's  sake  than  to  pervert 
the  uses  and  graces  and  dignities  of  life.  There  is  no  need  to  lay 
our  girlhood  and  boyhood  down  so  doggedly  upon  the  altar  of 
sacrifice  as  we  toil  up  life's  mountain  side.    Gray  hairs  should  no 


74  WERNER'S  READINGS 

longer  be  the  insignia  of  age,  but  the  crown  of  ripe  and  perennial 
youth. 

Laugh  for  your  health.  [Do  so  very  heartily.]  Laugh  for 
your  beauty.  [Do  so  comically.]  The  joyous  carry  a  fountain 
of  light  in  their  eyes  and  around  in  their  dimples  where  the  echoes 
of  gladness  play  "hide-and-seek."  But  your  lean  and  hungry 
Cassius  is  never  betrayed  into  a  laugh.  If  we  put  a  laugh  into  a 
strait-jacket  [laugh  hollowly],  we  kill  the  soul  of  joy.  If  we 
attempt  to  refine,  we  destroy  its  pure,  mellifluent  ring.  If  we  sup- 
press a  laugh  [illustrate],  it  mocks  the  effort  that  puts  it  forth. 

"Laugh,  and  the  world  laughs  with  you ;  weep,  and  you  weep 
alone."  Laugh  and  be  judged  by  it.  [Laugh  heartily.]  Laugh 
and  set  the  echoes  ringing  all  about  you.  [Laugh  more  heartily.] 
Laugh  and  grow  fat.     [Laugh  heartily  as  you  leave  stage.] 

CRYING. 

[Enter  stage  crying  bitterly  and  then  address  audience.] 

I  would  be  willing  to  choose  my  girl  by  the  quality  of  her  cry 
[a  sad,  zveeping  countenance].  A  quiet  sob  from  the  heart  [il- 
lustrate] as  surely  indicates  the  tender  and  sympathetic  nature  as 
anything  a  girl  ever  did  or  is  likely  to  do. 

A  cry  is  one  of  God's  truths.  [Cry  bitterly.]  It  tolerates  no 
disguises.  [Cry  in  great  agony.]  Leave  nature  alone.  [Cry 
wildly.]  Cry  if  you  want  to  "hold  your  own."  [Cry  lustily.]  He 
only  strives  against  nature  who  giggles.  Cry  with  all  your  heart. 
[Cry  bitterly,] 

I  don't  blame  the  babies  for  crying.  It's  the  first  privilege  of 
existence.  Cry  for  your  beauty.  [Beauty's  cry  should  be  full  of 
grimaces.]   'Cry  when  you  have  the  toothache.     [Cry  as  in  pain.] 

NOTE. 

After  giving  the  monologue  "Laughing,"  wait  a  moment  and  then  give 
the  monologue  "Crying,"  as  an  encore.  The  two  monologues  may  also 
be  successfully  given  at  one  time  by  two  different  persons  who  appear 
simultaneously  on  stage,  one  laughing  heartily,  the  other  crying  bitterly. 
The  Laugher  recites  his  first  sentence  with  full  business;  then  the  Crier 
recites  his  first  sentence  with  full  business,  they  alternating  in  this  way 
until  the  end. 


AND    RECITATIOXS   NO.    32.  75 


A   FLORENTINE   JULIET. 


Romantic,  Pathetic,  Italian  Monologue  in  Verse  for  a  Woman. 


SUSAN  COOLIDGE. 


Characters    Represented  :    Florentine    Mother,     Speaker, 
present;  Renzo,  her  son,  supposed  to  be  present. 

Costume  :     That  of  a  matron  of  the  12th  to  14th  Century — a 
house  costume. 

Stage-Setting:     Boudoir  interior  of  the  12th  to  14th  century. 

Scene  :     At  rise  of  curtain  Mother  is  seated  near  a  table  looking 
down  at  Son  who  is  supposed  to  be  seated  near  her. 

WHAT  is  it,  my  Renzo?     What  is  thy  desire? 
To  hear  my  story — hear  the  whole  of  it? 
Ah,  boy,  with  eyes  still  full  of  childish  dreams, 
And  yet  with  manhood  on  the  firm  young  lip, 
'Tis  a  hard  thing  to  ask  me,  and  a  strange. 

Yet  must  I  do  this  hard  thing  for  thy  sake, 
Since  who  shall  do  it  for  thee,  if  not  I  ? 
Thy  father,  who  had  else  more  fitly  told, 
Is  at  the  wars,  the  weary,  wasting  wars. 
Long  years  ago  he  sailed  unto  the  wars, 
And  dead  or  living,  comes  not  back  to  us. 

Thou  bearest  an  honorable  name,  my  son, 

Two  mighty  houses  meet  and  blend  in  thee : 

For  I,  thy  mother,  of  the  warlike  line 

Of  Bardi,  lords  of  Florence  in  past  time, 

Was  daughter,  and  thy  sire  Ippolito 

Sprang  from  the  Buondelmonti,  their  sworn  foes : 

For  we  were  Guelph  and  they  were  Ghibelline, 


76  WERNER'S  READINGS 

And  centuries  of  wrong,  and  seas  of  blood, 
And  old  traditional  hatreds  sundered  us. 

Even  in  my  babyhood  I  heard  the  name 
Of  Buondelmonti  uttered  'twixt  set  teeth 
And  coupled  with  a  curse,  and  I  would  pant 
And  knit  my  brows  and  clench  my  tiny  fist 
And  whimper  at  the  very  sound  of  it : 
Whereat  my  father,  stout  Amerigo, 
Would  catch  me  up  and  toss  me  overhead, 
And  say  I  was  best  Bardi  of  them  all : 
And  if  his  sons  but  matched  his  only  maid 
They'd  make  quick  work  of  the  black  Ghibellines 
And  of  Buondelmonti. 

So  I  grew 
To  woman's  stature,  and  men  called  me  fair, 
And  suitors,  like  a  flight  of  bees,  began 
To  hum  and  cluster  wheresoe'er  I  moved. 
And  then  there  came  the  day — that  fateful  day, 
When  little  Ghan,  my  father's  latest  born, 
Was  carried  for  chrism  to  the  baptistry. 
And  standing,  all  unaware,  beside  the  font, 
I  looked  across  the  dim  and  crowded  church 
And  saw  a  face,  a  dazzling,  youthful  face, 
A  face  that  smote  my  vision  like  a  star : 
With  golden  locks,  and  eyes  divinely  bright 
Like  San  Michele  in  the  picture  there, 
Fixed  upon  mine. 

Had  any  whispered  then 
It  was  Ippolito,  our  foeman's  son, 
At  whom  I  gazed,  I  should  have  turned  away. 
My  father's  daughter  sure  had  turned  away. 
But  nothing  warned  me,  nothing  hindered  him, 
We  looked  upon  each  other — Fate  so  willed — 
And  with  our  eyes  our  hearts  met. 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.    32.  77 

And  still  that  tender,  radiant  gaze  wooed  mine, 
And  still  I  felt  the  enchantment  burn  and  burn, 
But  would  not  turn  my  head  or  look  again: 
And  all  that  night  I  lay  and  felt  those  eyes, 
And  day  by  day  they  seemed  to  follow  me, 
Like  unknown  planets  of  some  strange  new  heaven 
Whose  depths  I  dared  not  question  or  explore; 
And  love  and  hate  so  strove  for  mastery, 
Within  my  girl's  heart  made  their  battle-field, 
That  all  my  forces  failed  and  life  grew  faint. 

He  for  his  part  set  forth  with  heart  afire, 

To  learn  my  name — sad  knowledge,  easy  gained, 

Leaving  the  learner  stricken  with  a  chill. 

And  after  that  wherever  I  might  go — 

To  ball  or  feast,  I  saw  him,  only  him ! 

And  while  the  other  cavaliers  pressed  round 

To  praise  my  face  or  dress  or  hold  my  fan, 

Or  bid  me  to  the  dance,  he  stood  aloof 

With  passionate  eyes,  but  never  might  draw  near 

For  still  my  brother  Piero  or  my  sire 

Was  close  behind,  with  dark-set  brows  intent 

To  watch  him  that  he  did  not  dare  to  speak. 

At  last,  with  baffling  of  his  heart-sick  hope 
And  long  suspense  and  sorrow  he  fell  ill : 
And  in  a  moment  when  life's  tide  ran  low 
He  told  his  mother  all :  she,  loving  him  well 
And  loth  to  see  him  perish  thus  forlorn, 
Became  his  ally,  spoke  him  words  of  cheer, 
And  with  my  cousin  Contessa,  her  sworn  friend, 
She  counsel  took :  and  so,  betwixt  the  two, 
It  came  about  that  on  a  day  of  spring 
We  met :  a  meeting  cunningly  contrived. 
In  an  old  villa  past  the  walls. 
My  mother  had  led  me  thither,  knowing  naught, 


;8  WERNER'S  READINGS 

And  I,  naught  knowing,  had  wandered  for  a  space 

Among  the  boskage  and  the  fragrant  vines; 

I  heard  the  soft  throb  of  a  mandolin, 

And  next  a  voice,  divinely  sweet  it  seemed, 

A  voice  unheard  till  then,  and  yet  I  knew 

The  voice  for  his. 


The  music  ceased,  the  while  spell-bound  I  stayed, 

Then  came  a  rustle,  he  was  at  my  feet! 

Few  moments  might  we  stay,  and  few  words  speak . 

But  love  is  swift  of  tongue,  all  was  arranged, 

The  plan  of  our  escape,  the  hour,  the  place, 

And  that  Ippolito,  next  night  but  two, 

With  a  rope  ladder  hidden  'neath  his  cloak, 

Should  stand  beneath  my  window.     Once  on  grouiad 

A  priest  should  wait  to  bind  us  quickly  one. 

Then  a  mad  gallop,  ere  the  dawn  of  day, 

Would  set  us  safely  forth  beyond  the  rule 

Of  the  Black  Lily. 

With  his  vanishing 
The  thing  grew  like  a  dream,  and  as  in  a  dream 
I  seemed  to  walk  the  next  day  and  the  next; 
For  all  my  thoughts  were  of  that  coming  night, 
And  all  my  fear  was  lest  it  should  not  come. 
And  all  the  oldTtime  animosities, 
And  all  the  hates  bred  in  me  from  a  child, 
And  feudal  faith  and  loyalties  were  dead; 
I  was  no  more  a  Bardi ;  Love  ruled  all. 

It  came,  the  night,  and  on  the  stroke  of  twelve 

I  stood  at  the  casement,  wrapped  in  veil,  with  mask 

And  muffling  cloak  laid  ready  close  beside ; 

And  there  I  stood  and  watched  and  heard  the  bells 

Strike  one,  two,  three,  and  saw  the  rose  of  dawn 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.   32.  79 

Deepen  to  day,  and  still  my  love  came  not. 
Then  fearing  to  be  spied,  I  crept  to  bed, 
And  lying  in  a  weary  trance,  half  sleep, 
Heard  shouts  and  cries  and  noise  of  joyful  stir 
Run  through  the  palace,  and  quick  echoing  feet, 
And  little  Cosmo  thundering  at  my  door. 
''Wake,  Dianora,  here  is  glorious  news, 
Ippolito,  our  foeman's  only  son, 
Is  caught  red-handed  on  some  midnight  raid, 
Taken  with  a  rope-ladder  'neath  his  cloak, 
Bound  for  some  theft  or  felony,  no  doubt : 
And,  as  he  offers  neither  excuse  nor  plea, 
He  is  to  suffer  at  the  hour  of  noon, 
In  spite  of  his  fond  father's  threats  and  cries. 
All  that  the  criminal  asks  by  way  of  boon 
Is  he  may  pass  our  palace  as  he  goes 
Unto  the  scaffold.     A  queer  fancy  that, 
But  all  the  better  sport  it  makes  for  us, 
And  we  need  neither  pity  nor  deny ; 
So  rise,  sweet  sister,  don  your  bravest  gear, 
For  all  the  household  on  the  balcony 
Will  be  to  jeer  the  fellow  as  he  wends." 

My  boy,  look  not  so  startled,  those  were  bitter  days. 
What  was  I  saying?    So  I  rose  that  day 
A  traitor  unsuspected  'mid  his  foes, 
Who  were  my  friends,  hiding  'neath  feigned  smiles 
A  purpose  desperate  as  was  my  hope. 
I  rose  and  let  them  deck  me  as  they  would, 
Put  on  my  jewels,  star  my  hair  with  pearls, 
And  all  the  while  a  voice  like  funeral  dirge 
Sang  in  my  half-crazed  ears  or  seemed  to  sing 
The  fragment  and  the  cadence  of  a  song, 
"Ah  death,  the  end  of  grief,  what  do  I  care?" 
Then  took  my  station  on  the  balcony, 
In  the  mid  place,  the  very  front  of  all, 


80  WERNER'S  READINGS 

To  see  the  hated  foeman  of  our  race 
Led  past  the  palace  on  his  way  to  die! 
Long  time  we  waited,  till  the  fear  began 
To  stir  that  some  mischance  had  marred  the  plan, 
And  still  I  sat  and  smiled,  and  while  the  bells 
Tolled,  and  they  talked  and  buzzed,  I  only  prayed, 
"O  pitying  Virgin,  only  grant  he  come!" 

They  came  at  last,  the  Bargello  and  his  troop, 

And  in  the  midst  my  love  with  hands  fast  tied 

And  golden  locks  uncurled  and  face  all  wan, 

But  still  with  gallant,  bearing,  and  his  eyes 

Fixed  upon  mine — me,  for  whose  sake  he  died, 

For  whose  sweet  honor's  sake  he  silent  died. 

There  was  a  little  halt  and  then  a  cry 

Of  fierce  joy  rang  from  out  our  balcony. 

Now  was  my  time :  all  sudden  sprang  I  up, 

And  while  the  astonished  crowd  kept  silence  deep, 

And  they,  my  kin,  amazed,  sat  silent,  too, 

I  loudly  told  our  tale,  our  woful  tale, 

And  made  avowal  that  'twas  for  my  sake 

Ippolito  his  noble  silence  kept! 

Then,  while  my  brother  strove  to  stop  my  mouth 

And  fierce  hands  clutched  my  gown  and  seized  my  arms, 

I  clung  and  pleaded :   "Find  the  holy  friar, 

Good  people,  only  send  to  find  the  friar — 

Find  him'  for  pity's  sake ;  he  will  confirm 

All  I  have  said  and  prove  my  truth,  and  his,    ■ 

And  save  my  dear  love,  slain  for  love  of  me." 

Then  a  great  cry  arose ;  some  this  way  ran, 

Some  that,  and  suddenly,  amid  the  press 

A  cowl  was  seen,  and  Fra  Domenico, 

Breathless  with  haste,  just  conscious  of  our  need, 

Ran  in  the  midst,  and  then,  I  know  not  what, 

For  all  was  tumult ;  but  my  love  stood  free, 

Free  and  unbound,  and  all  the  populace 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.   32. 

Shouted  our  two-fold  names,  "Ippolito 
And  Dianora,"  and  the  bells  broke  out, 
And  with  the  bells  the  sun  and  all  the  air 
Seemed  full  of  interlaced  and  tangled  sounds. 
Cries  and  glad  pealings  and  our  blended  names 
On  one  side ;  on  the  other  stormy  words, 
Reproach  and  curses. 

Then  the  Podesta 
And  many  great  lords  came,  and  all  passed  in, 
And  up  the  stairs  and  filled  the  palace  full, 
And  high  and  low  joined  in  an  equal  plea 
That  the  long  feud  be  stanched,  and  as  a  pledge 
Of  lasting  peace  we  two  be  wedded  straight. 
But  still  my  father  frowned  and  closed  his  ears, 
And  still  my  brothers  fumbled  at  their  swords : 
But  when  Count  Buondelmonti,  aged  and  gray, 
And  shattered  with  the  horror  just  escaped, 
Suspense  and  heavy  sickness,  hurried  in 
And  kissed  my  hands  and  knelt  before  my  feet 
And  blessed  me,  the  savior  of  his  son, 
While  with  redoubled  zeal  the  Podesta 
Urged,  and  the  noble  lords — Heaven  touched  their  hearts 
They  gave  consent,  and  so  the  feud  was  healed, 
And  the  next  day  my  love  and  I  were  wed. 
And  twenty  glad  years  came  and  fleetly  sped. 
Ah  me !  and  then  he  sailed  unto  the  wars, 
And  all  the  years  that  have  gone  by  since  then 
Are  as  sad  night-shades  steeped  in  deadly  dews. 
Death  has  been  busy  with  us,  as  thou  knowest. 
Thou  art  the  youngest  of  my  six  fair  sons, 
Thou  art  the  only  one  to  close  my  eyes. 
If  I  shall  wake  in  Paradise  one  day 
And  find  him  safe,  safely  still  my  own, 
And  see  his  eyes  with  the  old  steadfast  look", 
Why  that  will  be  enough,  that  will  be  Heaven"! 


%2  WERNER'S  READINGS 


PRESSED   FOR  TIME. 


Comedy  Monologue  for  a  Man. 


CHARLES  DE  SIVRY. 


Translated  expressly  for  this  book  by  Lucy  Hayes  Macqueen. 


Character  :     The  Man  Pressed  for  Time. 

Costume  :     Society  Frenchman. 

Scene  :  Room  of  a  Society  Man.  Couches,  chairs,  table,  etc. 
One  man  supposed  to  be  seated  near  table.  Society  Man  stands 
near  him. 


M 


Y  dear  friend,  I  beg-  a  thousand  pardons,  but  I  must  leave 
you  at  once — I  am  very  busy — exceedingly  pressed  for 
time. 

[Makes  for  the  door,  but  just  at  the  door  returns  again  to  hit 
friend.  ] 

By  the  way,  did  I  tell  you  something?  No?  Well,  it's  all  the 
general's  fault.  He  was  telling  me  about  that  everlasting  old 
campaign  of  his  and  I  was  pretending  to  listen — not  heeding  one 
word,  you  know, — he  was  going  on :  "I  massed  my  men  with 
a  sharp  turn,  scattered  the  men  of  the  28th,  everything  was  going 
beautifully" — just  then  my  fiancee  came  toward  us,  and  as  I  leaned 
forward  to  make  a  pretty  little  speech  to  her,  all  the  time  pretend- 
ing to  be  engrossed  with  the  general,  something  twitched  my  cup 
of  chocolate  out  of  my  hand  and  all  over  the  pale  blue  chiffon 
gown  of  my  cousin.  I  rushed  from  the  room  covered  with  shame, 
the  ridicule  of  all  the  people  in  the  room, — and  chocolate.  So, 
that  is  why  my  engagement  is  broken  off — such  an  excellent 
match,  too. 

I  am  going  to  try  to  make  up  the  misunderstanding  to-day.  The 
ladies  go  every  afternoon  between  two  and  three  to  that  well- 
known  little  confectioner's  shop  on  the  Boulevard,  to  nibble  maca* 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.   32.  83 

roons  and  discuss — their  neighbors ;  and  I  am  going  to  meet  them 
there  to-day  and  try  to  get  in  her  good  graces  again. 

[Consults  his  watch-] 

It  is  now  just  ten  minutes  of  three.  I  have  not  much  time  to 
lose.  Well,  I'll  say  good-bye.  Pardon  me  for  being  in  such  a 
hurry,  but  you  understand. 

[He  makes  another  attempt  to  leave,  but  returns  just  as  he 
reaches  the  door.] 

By  the  way,  did  I  tell  you  that  the  general  is  a  very  useful 
friend  to  keep  in  with  ?  If  I  get  the  embassy  I  am  seeking,  it  will 
be  through  his  recommendation ;  onh  for  that  I  would  not  waste 
my  time  listening  to  his  old  campaign  yarns.  Time  is  too  pre- 
cious. Besides  [laughing],  you  know  about  that  famous  "sharp 
turn"  he  is  always  talking  about?  Well,  it  is  a  matter  of  history 
that  he  was  beaten  all  to  pieces  by  the  enemy — done  up  like  hot 
cakes — oh,  that  reminds  me — speaking  of  cakes — of  the  ladies 
and  the  confectioner's  shop. 

[Consults  watch.] 

Heavens !    I  must  be  going.     It  is  five  minutes  after  three. 

[Makes  another  attempt  to  leave,  but  returns  as  before.] 

Oh,  apropos  of  nothing  in  particular,  have  you  heard  the  sad 
news?  Gaeton,  my  best  friend,  and  yours,  too,  I  believe, — well, 
his  life  is  despaired  of.  He  is  terribly  low,  poor  fellow.  It  came 
about  from  a  quarrel.  He  has  broken  with  the  little  countess — 
all  for  nothing — a  mere  trifle.  They  had  a  true  love-affair  this 
time.  It  has  lasted  three  months  now.  He  is  ill,  in  bed, — fever 
and  the  blues — pulse,  450  beats  per  minute. 

[Consults  his  watch.] 

Too  bad  !  It  is  a  quarter  after  three !  I  have  missed  the  ladies. 
Well,  never  mind,  I'll  see  them  at  the  opera  this  evening — "Aux 
Italiens" — they  never  miss  it.  And  now  I'll  just  run  over  and  see 
the  minister  of  foreign  affairs  about  my  embassy.  I'll  just  be  in 
time,  for  the  general  leaves  every  day  at  half-past  three ;  but  I 
must  hurry,  so  good-bye. 
♦      [Rushes  to  a  window  and  hails  an  imaginary  cab.] 


84  WERNER'S   READINGS 

Coachman !  Coachman !  Oh,  it  is  taken.  Well,  never  mind. 
I'll  walk  fast.     Good-bye,  again. 

[Makes  another  attempt  to  leave,  but  returns  again.] 

Poor  Gaeton,  who  is  ill  with  the  fever,  I  promised  him  that 
I  would  stop  at  the  countess's  and  tell  her  what  a  state  he  is  in — 
his  despair,  his  sorrow,  his  penitence.  I  think  she  will  listen  to 
me — she  must  listen  to  me.    I  will  speak  eloquently,  like  this : 

[Addressing  an  imaginary  cotmtess:] 

"Madam,  if  you  only  saw  him  this  morning-  as  I  saw  him,  you 
would  be  all  pity  for  his  miserable  state.  Madam,  it  is  his  life 
that  I  beg  from  you — his  life !  He  said  to  me :  'If  you  are  not 
back  here  at  four  o'clock  precisely  with  good  news  from  the 
countess,  then  I  shall  know  that  she  wants  no  more  to  do  with  me, 
and  I  shall  immediately,  precisely  at  five  minutes  past  four,  blotv 
out  my  brains.'    And  you  know  that  he  will  keep  his  word." 

[Addressing  the  imaginary  friend.] 

He  really  will,  too.  He's  a  hot-headed  fellow.  He  is  such  a 
serious  fellow,  too,  withal,  he  could  have  made  his  fortune  as  a 
lyric  poet !  I  shall  carry  his  pardon  to  him  in  a  paper — a  little 
violet  scented  note. 

[Running  to  the  window  and  frantically  hailing  another  cab.] 

Coachman !  Coachman !  Why  is  it  that  every  cab  in  Paris  is 
engaged  this  afternoon? 

[Consulting  watch.] 

It's  no  use.  The  general  is  gone  now.  It  is  half-past  three ! 
Where  can  I  find  him  ?  What  an  unfortunate  day  it  has  been  for 
me!  He  was  waiting  for  me,  too,  and  he  will  be  furious  at  my 
disappointing  him.  He  has  left  in  a  rage,  by  this  time.  Heavens ! 
I  wish  I  knew  where  I  could  find  him!  And  it  is  all  your  fault! 
You  detain  me  here  talking  and  gossiping  when  you  know  I  have 
important  business  to  attend  to.  Oh,  I  do  not  blame  you.  When 
people  are  talking  time  flies  so  quickly  one  does  not  notice.  But 
I  must  run  now.  I  shall  go  to  the  countess's  house— the  little 
countess — for  I  must  save  my  friend's  life.  He  distinctly  told 
me  that  if  I  am  not  back  with  him  at  four  o'clock,  he  will  blow  out 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.   32.  85 

his  brains  at  five  minutes  after  four.  He  will  do  it,  too.  Oh,  the 
women !    Good  evening". 

[Makes  another  attempt  to  leave,  but  returns  again.] 

[Quickly.]  I  will  go  now  to  the  countess's  house  and  will  tell 
her  in  two  words  what  I  have  told  you. 

Then,  I'll  whisper  in  her  ear  to  make  my  excuses  to  the  general, 
her  husband,  and  I'll  ask  her  to  try  to  get  him  to  sign  the  papers 
for  me.  So  you  see,  I'll  kill  two  birds  with  one  stone.  After- 
ward, I'll  run  to  poor  Gaeton  with  the  good  news — for  I  shall 
carry  nothing  but  good  news.  As  a  diplomat,  you  can  depend 
upon  me. 

And  they  say  that  the  world  thinks  that  society  men  have  all 
their  time  unoccupied!  What  injustice!  They  think  we  are  lazy. 
Well,  now,  at  last,  everything  will  come  around  all  right !  This 
evening  at  "Aux  Italiens"  I  shall  have  patched  up  my  engage- 
ment, received  pardon  from  the  general,  and  saved  the  life  of  my 
best  friend. 

[Consults  watch.] 

Great  Heavens !    It  is  five  minutes  after  four  o'clock ! 

He  is  dead ! 


BETTY  BOTTER'S  BATTER. 


BETTY  BOTTER  bought  some  butter, 
"But,"  she  said,  "this  butter's  bitter. 
If  I  put  it  in  my  batter, 
It  will  make  the  batter  bitter, 
But  a  bit  of  better  butter 
Will  make  my  batter  better." 
So  she  bought  a  bit  of  butter 
Better  than  the  bitter  butter 
And  made  her  bitter  batter  better. 
So  'twas  better  Betty  Botter 
Bought  a  bit  of  better  butter. 


86  WERNER'S   READINGS 


TAKEN   BY    SURPRISE. 


Comedy  and  Dramatic  Monologue  for  a  Woman. 


METTA  VICTORIA  VICTOR. 


Arranged  &s  monologue  and  directions  given  expressly  for  this  book. 


Characters  :  Miss  Gumbtdge,  Boarding-House  Mistress, 
Speaker  present;  Dora,  and  several  Gentlemen  supposed  to  be 
present. 

Costume  :  Gray  wig,  red  flannel  nightcap,  red  flannel  night- 
gown, old  dark  petticoat  showing  beneath  nightgown,  teeth  all 
out  (may  be  made  to  look  so  by  blacking  each  tooth  with  shoe- 
maker's wax).     Skin  made-up  to  look  wrinkled  and  old. 

Scene:  Hall-way  (L.  side  of  stage).  Room  where  fire  is  sup- 
posed to  be  is  at  R.  of  stage.  Miss  Gumbidge  stands  facing  en- 
trance to  the  room.  She  jumps  about  a  good  deal  and  calls  at 
top  of  lungs.] 

SCENE  I. 

DORA !  Dora !  Dora !  wake  up,  wake  up,  I  say !  Don't  you 
smell  something  burning  ?  Wake  up,  child !  Don't  you 
smell  fire  ?  Goodness,  so  do  I !  I  thought  I  wasn't  mistaken.  The 
room's  full  of  smoke.  Oh,  dear !  what  shall  we  do  ?  Don't  stop 
to  put  on  your  petticoat.  We'll  all  be  burned  to  death.  Fire ! 
fire !   fire ! 

[  Turns  quickly  and  looks  toward  stage  front  where  Mr.  Little 
is  supposed  to  be  standing.] 

Yes,  there  is !  I  don't  know  where !  It's  all  over, — our  room's 
all  ablaze,  and  Dora  won't  come  out  till  she  gets  her  dress  on. 
Mr.  Little,  you  shan't  go  in — I'll  hold  you — you'll  be  killed  just 
to  save  that  chit  of  a  girl,  when  I — I —  He's  gone — rushed  right 
into  the  flames ! 

[Seems  exhausted  after  her  effort  to  hold  Mr.  Little  from 
going  into  her  room.] 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.   32.  87 

Oh,  my  house,  my  furniture,  all  my  earnings !  Can't  anything 
be  done  ?     Fire !    fire !   fire  ! 

[Another  boarder  seems  to  have  entered  and  stands  just  where 
Mr.  Little  stood.] 

Call  the  fire-engines  !  Ring  the  dinner-bell !  Be  quiet  ?  How 
can  I  be  quiet?  Yes,  it's  all  in  flames;  I  saw  them  myself! 
Where's  my  silver  spoons?  Oh,  where's  my  teeth,  and  my  silver 
soup-ladle  ?  Let  me  be !  I'm  going  out  into  the  street  before  it's 
too  late ! 

[Miss  Gumbidge  suddenly  makes  for  stage  front  as  if  about 
to  leave,  then  acts  as  if  stopped  by  some  one.\ 

Oh,  Mr.  Grayson,  have  you  got  water?  Have  you  found  the 
place?     Are  they  bringing  water? 

[Drops  into  chair  near  stage  front  C] 

Did  you  say  the  fire  was  out?  Was  that  you  that  spoke,  Mr. 
Little  ?  I  thought  you  were  burned  up,  sure.  And  there's  Dora, 
too.  How  did  they  get  out?  My  clothes-closet  was  on  fire,  and 
the  room,  too !  We  would  have  been  smothered  in  five  minutes 
more  if  we  hadn't  waked  up !  But  it's  all  out  now,  and  no  damage 
done  but  my  dresses  destroyed  and  the  carpet  spoiled.  Thank 
the  Lord,  if  that's  the  worst !  But  it  ain't  the  worst !  Dora,  come 
along  this  minute  to  my  room.  Don't  you  see — don't  vou  see  I'm 
in  my  night-clothes?  I  never  thought  of  it  before.  I'm  ruined, — 
ruined  completely !  Gentlemen,  get  out  of  the  way  as  quickly  as 
you  can. 

[Rushes  wildly  into  her  room  dragging  Dora  with  her.] 

Dora,  shut  the  door. 

[Miss  Gumbidge  rushes  to  dresser  at  stage  R.  and  gazes  at 
herself.] 

Hand  me  that  candle — I  want  to  look  at  myself  in  the  glass. 
To  think  that  all  those  gentlemen  should  have  seen  me  in  this 
fix!  I'd  rather  have  perished  in  the  flames.  It's  the  very  first 
night  I've  worn  these  flannel  nightcaps,  and  to  be  seen  in  'em. 
Good  gracious,  how  old  I  do  look !  Not  a  spear  of  hair  on  my 
head,  scarcely,  and  this  red  nightgown  and  old  petticoat  on,  and 
my  teeth  in  the  tumbler  and  the  paint  all  washed  off  my  face,  and 


88  WERNER'S  READINGS 

scared  besides  !  It's  no  use !  I  never,  never  again  can  make  any  of 
those  men  believe  that  I'm  only  twenty-five ;  and  I  felt  so  sure  of 
some  of  them.  They  say  that  new  boarder  is  a  drawing-master. 
I  know  he'll  caricature  me  for  the  amusement  of  the. young  men. 
Only  think  how  my  portrait  would  look  taken  to-night !  and  he'll 
have  it,  I'm  sure,  for  I  noticed  him  looking  at  me, — the  first  thing 
that  reminded  me  of  my  situation  after  the  fire  was  put  out.  Well, 
there's  but  one  thing  to  be  done,  and  that's  to  put  a  bold  face  on 
it.  I'll  pretend  to  something — I  don't  know  just  what — to  get 
myself  out  of  this  scrape,  if  I  can. 
[Exit  from  room  and  stage.] 

SCENE  II. 

Stage-Setting  :    Dining-room  with  table  down  stage  C,  chairs 
about  table. 

[Enter  Miss  -  Gumbidge  gotten  tip  in  latest  morning  gown. 
She  bows  right  and  left  as  she  approaches  table,  seats  herself  very 
carefully  at  head  of  table  and  then  beams  on  each  boarder  in 
turn  while  she  sees  them  properly  served.] 

Good  morning,  gentlemen,  good  morning!  We  had  quite  a 
fright  last  night,  didn't  we  ?  Dora  and  I  came  pretty  near  paying 
dear  for  a  little  frolic.  You  see,  we  were  dressing  up  in  character 
to  amuse  ourselves,  and  I  was  all  fixed  up  to  represent  an  old 
woman,  and  had  put  on  a  gray  wig  and  an  old  flannel  gown  that 
I'd  found,  and  we'd  set  up  pretty  late,  having  some  fun  all  to  our- 
selves ;  and  I  expect  Dora  must  have  been  pretty  sleepy,  when  she 
was  putting  some  of  the  things  away,  and  set  fire  to  a  dress  in 
the  closet,  without  noticing  it.  I've  lost  my  whole  wardrobe,  nigh 
about,  by  her  carelessness ;  but  it's  such  a  mercy  we  weren't 
burned  in  our  bed  that  I  don't  care  to  complain  so  much  on  that 
account.  Isn't  it  curious  how  I  got  caught  dressed  up  like  my 
grandmother  ?  We  didn't  suppose  we  were  going  to  appear  before 
so  large  an  audience  when  we  planned  out  our  little  frolic.  Don't 
you  think  I'd  personify  a  pretty  good  old  woman,  gentlemen — 
ha!  ha! — for  a  lady  of  my  age?    What's  that,  Mr.  Little?    You 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.   32.  89 

wish  I'd  make  you  a  present  of  that  nightcap,  to  remember  me  by  ? 
Of  course;  I've  no  further  use  for  it.  It's  one  of  Bridget's  that 
I  borrowed  for  the  occasion,  and  I've  got  to  give  it  back  to  her. 
Have  some  coffee,  Mr.  Grayson — do !  I've  got  cream  for  it  this 
morning.  Mr.  Smith,  help  yourself  to  some  of  the  beefsteak.  It's 
a  very  cold  morning — fine  weather  out-of-doors.  Eat  all  you  can, 
all  of  you.  Have  you  any  profiles  to  take  yet,  Mr.  Gamboge?  I 
Way  make  up  my  mind  to  set  for  mine  before  you  leave  us ;  I've 
always  thought  I  should  have  it  taken  some  time.  In  character? 
He !  he !  Mr.  Little,  you're  so  funny !  But  you'll  excuse  me  this 
morning,  as  I  had  such  a  fright  last  night.  I  must  go  and  take 
up  that  wet  carpet. 

[Miss  Gumbidge  gets  up,  smiles  and  boivs  to  all  at  table  and 
exits.  ] 


READY  FOR  A  KISS. 


M 


AMMA,  I'se  been  washin'- 
Don't  you  see  I  has? 
Curled  my  hair  my  own  se'f 

Sweetest  ever  was ! 
Nozzer  time  I  was  not 
Half  so  nice  as  this — 
See,  I'se  fixed  up,  mamma, 
Ready  for  a  kiss ! 

Johnny's  having  trouble — 

Dreffle  trouble,  too — 
Bird-eggs  in  his  pocket, 

Keeps  a-comin'  f roo ! 
I  ain't  a  dirt  baby — 

Does  you  think  I  is? 
I'se  your  little  Taddie, 

Ready  for  a  kiss ! 


90  WERNER'S  READINGS 

THE  LITTLE  FRIEND   IN  THE  MIRROR. 


Comedy  Monologue  for  Very  Young  Girl. 


ANNA  M.  PHILLY. 


Written  expressly  for  this  book. 


Characters  Represented:  Small  Girl,  Speaker,  present;  her 
friend  and  playmate,  Mary,  her  Big  Sister,  Tom  and  Bob,  all 
supposed  to  be  present  sometime  during  the  monologue. 

Costume:  Small  Girl  wears  Big  Sister's  silk  skirt  and  car- 
ries her  best  fan. 

Stage-Setting  :  Dressing-room  interior.  Large  mirror  so 
placed  that  audience  can  get  profile  view  of  Small  Girl  and  of 
her  reflection  in  mirror  as  she  sits  before  mirror  making-up  with 
powder,  etc.  Near  large  mirror  is  table  on  which  is  placed 
doll,  powder  box,  bow  of  ribbon,  etc.  About  the  room  are 
chairs,  couch,  etc. 

Scene  at  Rise  of  Curtain  :  Small  Girl  standing  near  couch 
on  which  sits  Mary. 

Small  Girl. 

NOW,  Mary,  the  boys  are  gone,  and  you  and  I  will  have  a  good 
time  with  our  dollies.  .  I  don't  see  what  makes  boys  so 
mean,  do  you  ?  They  had  rather  tease  than  eat.  Whenever  they 
see  me  talking  to  you  they  call  out,  "Oh,  how  do  you  do,  Mary?" 
in  such  a  silly  way.     I  get  so  provoked  at  them. 

[Listening.]  I  wonder  what  that  noise  was?  Excuse  me  just 
a  moment,  and  I'll  go  see.  [Runs  to  imaginary  door  and  looks 
out.]  No,  Mary,  it  was  a  false  alarm;  they  are  playing  ball  be- 
hind the  barn,  so  we  are  safe. 

[Admiring  doll's  dress.]  Oh,  thank  you!  I'm  so  glad  you  like 
it.  My  grandma  made  it.  Oh,  it's  just  dimity.  Yes,  I  think  she 
looks  sweet  in  it.  How  is  your  baby  this  morning?  What?  You 
don't  say!  What's  the  matter?  I'll  bet  it's  amonia  on  the  lungs! 
That's  what  Mrs.  Paul's  little  boy  had,  and  he  died ;  wasn't  sick 
but  two  days !  You'd  better  be  careful  with  her.    I'm  just  in  fear 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.   32.  yi 

and  trembling  (as  mamma  says),  I'm  so  afraid  Marabel  will  get 
amonia  or  brownkitties,  or  something  contiduous.  Humph !  What 
does  "contiduous"  mean  ?  Why,  it  means — let  me  see,  what  does 
it  mean  ?  Oh,  yes,  I  know ;  it  means  something  catching,  like 
diphtheria !  Oh,  that  makes  me  think,  did  you  know  my  Uncle 
Herbert's  children  had  the  diphtheria?  Oh,  yes,  they're  all  well 
now;  but  when  they  were  so  awful  sick  that  old  German  woman 
who  lives  next  door — what  is  her  name?  Yes,  that's  it — Mrs. 
Blitzenhoffer.  Well,  when  she  saw  the  card  out  she  came  over 
and  tapped  on  the  window  and  said,  "Och,  Mrs.  Schmidt,  I  vas 
so  sorey  your  chillerns  got  the  dip-te-ra-ri-a — Och,  dat  was  too 
bad  !"    Wasn't  that  funny  ? 

And — Oh !  you  mean,  hateful  boys !  if  you  don't  go  away  and 
stop  teasing  me  I'll  tell  mamma.  I  didn't  say  my  doll  had  dip-te- 
ra-ri-a,  or  any  such  thing!     I  just  said [Calling  up  stairs.] 

Mamma !  make  Tom  and  Bob  go  off  and  stop  teasing  me.  I'm 
not  a  tell-tale  either !  Oh,  what  does  make  boys  so  mean  ?  I 
wouldn't  be  a  boy  for  the  world  ! 

Oh,  where  is  that  pretty  bow  of  ribbon  ?  I'm  going  to  put  it  in 
my  hair.  Oh,  here  it  is.  Yphm  !  I  think  my  hair  looks  pretty  this 
way.  Now,  isn't  that  sweet  ?  This  dress  ?  Oh,  it's  sister  Amy's. 
[Parades  up  and  down  in  front  of  mirror,  admiring  her  gown.] 
She  has  just  loads  of  'em.  You  know  she  plays  and  sings  for  con- 
certs so  much  and  has  so  many  beaux,  so  she  has  to  have  lots  of 
different  kinds.  Humph?  Oh,  I  don't  know  what  the  goods  is, 
but  it's  pretty,  don't  you  think?    And  I  like  it.i 

Now,  let's  put  a  little  powder  on  our  faces.  Oh,  don't  you  long 
to  be  a  young  lady?  Yes,  this  is  sister's  fan,  too.  Oh,  one  of 
her  beaux  gave  it  to  her — Tom  Stewart,  I  think.  Bah !  no,  she 
don't  care  a  thing  for  him.  He  has  such  red  hair,  and  such  lots 
of  freckles.  But  he's  awful  good,  mamma  says,  and  has  lots  of 
money,  and  he's  awful  nice  to  little  sister.  He  always  brings  me 
marshmallows — a  whole  lot,  fresh  ones,  too ;  he  don't  try  to  poke 
off  a  lotjof  cheap  stuff  on  me  like  some  of  the  other  old  stingies  do. 

There!  I  thought  I  heard  something.  I'll  bet  those  boys  are 
sneaking  round  again.     [Goes  to  door  and  looks  out.]     Oh,  it's 


92  WERNER'S  READINGS 

my  sister!  What?  Well,  how  did  I  know  it  was  your  newest 
skirt?  Well,  I  just  thought  it  was  pretty,  and  I'm  not  hurting  it 
one  bit.  Well,  take  your  old  skirt  and  fan.  [Kicks  skirt  off  and 
tosses  fan.]  I  don't  want  'em,  anyway!  Maybe  you'd  like  me  to 
give  you  the  powder  I  put  on  my  face  [sarcastically].  I'm  not 
vain,  either !  Well,  you  can  tell  mamma,  if  you  want  to.  She 
said  I  could  play  up  here. 

There !  she's  gone — Mary.  Big  sisters  are  almost  as  mean 
as  boys.  When  /  get  to  be  a  big  sister  I'm  going  to  be  just  as 
good  to  all  the  little  girls,  and  let  them  play  with  anything  I've 
got! 

Didn't  sister  look  hateful  and  cross  when  she  went  out?  My! 
how  she  slammed  the  door !  But  you  ought  to  have  seen  her  last 
night  when  Fred  Martin  called.  He's  the  one  she  likes  best.  She 
had  that  skirt  on  that  I  just  kicked  off.  And  she  carried  her  fan 
and  she  winked  and  she  smiled,  and  whenever  she  didn't  under- 
stand what  he  said  to  her  she  would  say,  "Beg  pahdon?"  Just 
like  our  new  teacher  talks — the  one  from  Boston.  My !  but  she 
puts  it  on !  Just  you  wait.  The  next  time  he  comes  'round  I'll 
let  him  know  she's  got  a  temper. 

Say,  Mary,  I  wonder  who  left  their  flowers  here.  Daisies  are 
my  favorites.    Let's  tell  our  fortunes.     Name  it,  Mary.    Are  you 

^ '  "One  I  love,  two  I  love, 

Three  I  love,  I  say. 
Four  I  love  with  all  my  heart, 
And  five  I  cast  away. 

Six,  he  loves,  seven  she  loves, 

Eight  they  both  love, 

Nine  he  comes,  ten  he  tarries." 

Who  is  it  ?     Pooh !    I  don't  care  for  him,  anyway ;    he's 


[Listens.]  Now,  Tom,  if  you  don't  let  me  alone  I'll — I  wasn't, 
either,  talking  about  Teddy  St.  Clair.  I  was  just  practicing  my 
new  recitation  and  getting  ready  for  school.  There  goes  the  bell 
now  !  Dear  me !  And  I'm  not  ready  at  all.  My !  but  I'll  haft  to 
hustle.  [Gathers  up  doll  and  other  things  as  she  hastily  leaves 
platform.] 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.   32.  93 

DAWSON'S   WOMAN. 


Dramatic  Pathetic  Western  Dialect  Monologue  in  Verse  for  a  Man. 


W.  MILLER. 


Character  :    Westerner,  Speaker,  present. 

Costume:    Western  farmer. 

Scene  :     Westerner  enters,  moves  along  as  if  listening  to  some- 
one, nods  his  head  and  then  speaks. 

WANT  to  hear  about  Jim  Dawson  ?  he's  a  little  tetched,  you 
know ; 
Somethin'  ails  his  upper  story — kinder  cracked — he's  harmless, 

though. 
How  it  sends  the  chilly  shivers  up  an'  down  my  spinal  bone, 
Freezes  up  my  very  marrer,  when  I  think  how  Dawson's  gone ! 
But  about  that  Dawson  fam'ly.    Jim,  he  come  in  eighty-four, 
Took  up  land  an'  built  a  shanty,  batched  it  fer  a  year  or  more ; 
Jim  wuz  such  a  jolly  feller — such  a  bang-up  clever  one, 
That  we  liked  him,  an'  we  used  to  ask  him  over,  an'  he  come 

Purty  often ;  Marthy  wondered  if  he'd  took  a  shine  to  Cad — 
She's  our  oldest  gal,  an'  handsome,  if  she  does  look  like  her  dad ; 
But  Jim  didn't  do  no  courtin'  'round  our  gals,  an'  soon  the  boy, 
Blushin'  awkward,  tol'  my  folks  he'd  got  a  gal  in  Illinoy. 
Then  he  got  more  confidential  after  that,  an'  said  that  he 
Would  be  married  in  September ;  said  her  folks  wuz  farmers ;  she 
Hed  been  teachin'  school  a  little,  so's  to  help  her  folks  to  hum ; 
Said  she  made  han'-painted  picters,  an'  could  play  pianer  some. 

Wal,  he  brought  her  in  September.     Phew !  but  she  was  purty, 

though ; 
My  gals  couldn't  hold  a  candle  to  her,  an'  yet  they  ain't  so  slow ; 
My  two  gals  hev  got  the  muscle,  they  kin  plow  an'  use  the  hoe, 
But  'long  side  'o  her,  fer  beauty,  my  gals  didn't  stan'  no  show. 
An'  ye'd  ort  to  see  that  shanty  blossom  out  when  she  got  there — 


94  WERNER'S  READINGS 

White  lace  curtains  at  the  winders,  ingrain  carpet  on  the  floor, 
Drapes,  an'  lamberquins,  an'  tidies — ribbon  bows  just  filled  the 

air! 
Lots  o'  things  I  never  heard  of  Dawson's  woman  brought  out  here. 

Bunch  o'  cat-tails  in  the  corner — painted  chromos  everywheres, 
Little  bags  o'  scented  cotton  hangin'  on  the  backs  o'  chairs; 
An'  a-standin'  in  the  corner,  on  a  kind  o'  crooked  rack, 
Wuz  some  painted  jugs  an'  vases — think  she  called  'em  bricky- 

brac. 
That  ranch  paralyzed  the  natives  here ;  some  on  'em  used  to  swear 
That  it  looked  like  heaven  ort  to,  with  a  angel  hov'rin'  there ; 
I  kin  tell  ye,  mister,  that  it  wa'n't  exaggeratin'  things 
Very  much,  fer  Dawson's  woman  wuz  a  angel,  bar  the  wings. 

Ez  fer  Jim — wal,  now ;  ye  couldn't  tech  him  with  a  ten-foot  pole. 
Used  to  stay  to  hum    on    Sundays ;    ez    a    man    she    called  Jim 

"whole." 
She  wa'n't  no  shakes  at  housework,  said  she  never  hed  no  luck ; 
So  Jim  washed  an'  scrubbed  the  kitchen  floor,  an'  helped  her  cook 

the  chuck. 
She  told  Marthy,  confidential,  when  they'd  got  enough  ahead — 
Built  a  house  with  foldin'  doors,  an'  porch  an'  winder  blinds,  she 

said 
They'd  go  back  to  see  her  mother,  an'  she  told  her,  too,  that  day, 
When  they  got  rich,  they  wuz  goin'  back  to  Illinoy  to  stay. 

Their  hard  time  begun  that  winter,  fer  the  blizzards  they  raised 

Ned- 
Froze  the  horses  in  the  stables,  froze  the  cattle  in  the  shed; 
Folks  took  lots  of  exercise,  ye  see,  the  temper'ture  wuz  low, 
An'  fuel  high ;  we  went  without  some  necessaries,  too. 
Then  the  crops  played  out  next  season,  fer  the  rust  got  in  the 

wheat, 
Dews  an'  sunshine  done  the  business,  an'  our  hailstorms  can't  be 

beat ; 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.    32.  95 

Hail — an'  hearty,  too,  I  reckon,  fer  they  pelted  at  the  corn, 
Till  they  drove  it  out  o'  sight,  an'  let  no  second  crop  be  born. 

We're  used  to  it,  ez  I  told  ye,  but  we  got  downhearted  some, 
Waitin'    fer  that  summer's   harvest,   which   it   never,   somehow, 

come. 
Dawson's  folks  got  clean  discouraged,  never  seen  'em  smile  till — 

wal, 
That  there  mornin'  Jim  come  over,  grinned,  an'  said  they'd  got  a 

gal. 
Somewhat  later,  Dawson's  woman  piled  the  chromos  in  a  heap, 
Packed  up  all  the  fancy  truck  around  the  ranch,   jest  made  a 

sweep ; 
She  brought  out  all  the  bricky-brac,  an'  took  the  curtains  down, 
Loaded  up  the  one-hoss  wagon,  took  the  kid,  an'  broke  fer  town. 

I  saw  her  comin'  up  the  road,  an'  hollered,  "What's  to  pay?" 
She  said,  "Why,  debts,  o'  course,"  then  laughed  an'  turned  her 

face  away; 
She  said  they  didn't  need  the  things  at  all — then  tried  to  cough ; 
She  said  she'd  take  'em  up  to  town  an'  try  to  sell  'em  off. 
I  noticed  that  her  eyes  wuz  red,  but  she  went  on  to  say 
How  the  shanty  wuz  so  crowded  that  the  baby  couldn't  play. 
She  sold  the  traps  an'  paid  the  bills,  an'  hed  enough,  she  did, 
To  buy  a  coat  fer  Jim,  an'  shoes  an'  dresses  fer  the  kid. 

I  think  Dawson's  wife  got  homesick;  don't  believe  she  liked  the 

West; 
Guess  she  didn't  like  the  sandstones,  ner  the  Injins  at  their  best; 
Never'd  seen  a  lively  Injin  till  she  come  here,  an'  they  used 
To  skeer  her  some,  likewise  the  cowboys,  prowlin'   'round  the 

roost. 
Then  a  cyclone  blew  upon  us,  when  the  spring  wuz  gittin'  green, 
Struck  us  right  an'  left  an'  forrards,  till  it  shaved  the  country 

clean ; 


g6  WERNER'S  READINGS 

In  a  quite  emphatic  manner  lifted  all  we  hed  to  spare — 
Splintered  shanties,    barns    an'    fences — kindlin'    wood    whizzed 
through  the  air. 

Dawsons  went  to  town  that  day,  or  else  I  don't  know  where  they'd 

b'en. 
They  camped  with  us  a  week  or  two  till  they'd  built  up  again ; 
We  wuz  boardin'  in  the  cellar,  with  a  haystack  fer  a  roof, 
Which  that  breeze  hed  kindly  put  there,  an'  we  thought  it  good 

enough. 
Crops  wuz  more  than  slim  that  summer,  fer  we  hed  a  little  drouth 
Clean  from  April  to  September,  not  a  drop  to  wet  yer  mouth 
From  the  sky ;  we  kep'  from  chokin'  at  the  river,  till  it  slid, 
Then  brought  water  by  the  quart  an'  counted  it  by  drops,  we  did. 

How  the  sun  swooped  down  upon  us !  how  it  scorched  an'  cracked 

the  land! 
How  it  parched  the  fields  o'  grain  an'  cooked  the  taters  in  the 

sand ! 
Sucked  up  all  the  cricks  an'  rivers  in  Nebrasky,  an'  I'll  bet 
It  raised  a  row  aloft  at  night  because  it  hed  to  set! 
After  that  we  had  the  prairie  fire — November,  eighty-eight; 
If  ye  want  to  see  the  jaws  o'  hell  a-gapin'  at  ye  straight, 
With  a  million  hissin'  tongues  o'  flame,  an'  see  them  risin'  higher, 
An'  ye  hain't  got  no  ranch  to  save,  jest  watch  a  prairie  fire. 

Miles  away  we  heard  it  crackle,  all  the  sky  wuz  blazin'  red; 
Tumble  weeds  ez  big  ez  hay-stacks  helped  to  take  the  flames 

ahead ; 
All  the  land  wuz  jest  like  tinder,  an'  the  wind  wuz  blowin'  hard, 
So  the  flames  got  mighty  frisky,  seen  'em  jump  two  hundred  yard. 
Wal,  we  done  some  heavy  plowin'  'round  the  Dawson  ranch  that 

day, 
An'  the  wind  jest  took  a  friendly  freak,  an'  drew  the  flames  our 

way. 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.    32.  97 

We  saved  our  lives  by  managin',  I  might  relate  jest  how, 
But  I'm  tellin'  Dawson's  story,  an'  my  own  ain't  nowhere  now. 

Ez  we  crawled  to  Neighbor  Dawson's  when  the  fire  hed  gone 

that  day, 
We  saw  a  bundle,  which  it  'peared  the  wind  hed  blowed  away ; 
It  wuz  lyin'  in  the  gumbo  near  the  road,  an'  partly  hid, 
An'  I  hope  to  holler,  stranger,  if  it  wuzn't  Dawson's  kid ! 
She  hed  wandered  from  her  mother,  in  the  midst  of  smoke  an' 

flare, 
She  wuz  little,  so  the  hungry  flames  forgot  an'  left  her  there, 
Lyin'  smothered  by  the  roadway ;  so  we  took  her  to  the  home 
Where  she'd  furnisbor1  all  the  brightness  through  so  many  days 

o'  gloom. 

Dawson's  woman  never  held  her  head  up  after  that,  they  say — 
Teased  fer  Jim  to  take  her  home;  he  set  an'  watched  her  every 

day 
Till  the  end,  an'  told  her  soon  ez  he  could  git  enough  ahead 
They'd  go  back  to  Illinoy ;  "An'  take  the  little  one,"  she  said. 

Two  lone  mounds  are  over  yender,  on  the  banks  o'  Dismal  Crick, 
'Mongst  the  gumbo  grass  an'  cactus,  an'  the  sand  burs  growin' 

thick ; 
But  that  stream  still  murmurs  softer,  an'  the  birds  sing  in  the  air 
Jest  a  little  sweeter,  fer  the  sake  o'  them  that's  sleepin'  there. 
Dawson's  got  some  luny  notions ;  he  told  Parson  Gibbs,  one  day, 
That  he  didn't  b'lieve  in  God,  no  matter  what  the  preachers  say — 
Said  if  there  wuz  sech  a  bein',  that  he  wouldn't  hev  the  cheek 
To  handle  folks  so  rough,  when  he  hed  made  'em  poor  and  weak. 
Settin'  by  them  grave  mounds  yender,  'mongst  the  burs  an'  prickly 

pear, 
Dawson  spends  a  heap  o'  time;  he  says  he's  'feard  they're  lone- 
some there ; 
Says  it  ain't  no  place  to  keep  'em,  an'  he  told  me,  jest  to-day\, 
If  he  ever  could  he'd  take  'em  back  to  Illinoy  to  stay. 


y 


WERNER'S  READINGS 


DECEITFULNESS  OF  MAN. 


Comedy  New  England  Dialect  Monologue  for  a  Woman. 


Character:     Aunt  Susan,  Speaker,  present.     She  directs  her 
conversation  to  the  audience. 

SOME  say  't  when  Eve  left  the  Garden  a  double  burden  was 
imposed  upon  her  because  she-  had  sinned  twice,  once  in  her 
pride  and  once  in  eatin'  the  fruit,  an'  thet  only  a  single  burden  was 
placed  on  Adam.    I  dunno  ez  thet  is  true,  an'  I  ain't  sayin'  it  ain't. 

My  sex  has  its  failin's,  and  none  knows  'em  better'n  me  who  has 
been  one  of  'em  all  my  life,  but  sometimes  it  seems  to  me  we  have 
our  burdens.  How"  did  Ed  Johnson  treat  my  niece,  Susan  Wig- 
gins, who  married  him  less'n  a  year  ago  under  false  pretenses  ? 

It  never  made  no  diff'rence  in  the  relations  in  our  family  thet 
the  Wigginses  leaned  toward  Methodism,  an'  after  Susan  was 
named  for  me  I  never  mention'd  it.  The  Johnsons  was  mostly 
Unitarians,  which,  ez  near  ez  I  can  calculate,  isn't  bein'  much  of 
anythin'  accordin'  to  rule. 

Ed  wasn't  no  better'n  the  Johnsons  run,  an'  I  ain't  sayin'  he 
was  worse.  He  had  his  faults,  though,  an'  manlike  he  concealed 
them  till  after  he  was  married. 

Well,  Susan  Wiggns  was  brought  up  about  ez  strict  Methodis' 
ez  any  one  around  here,  an'  her  face  was  set  against  cards  an' 
the-aters  an'  rum  an'  tobacco  about  ez  much  ez  any  one's,  if  I  do 
say  it  myself.  When  Ed  Johnson  married  her  no  one  told  Susan 
thet  he  had  any  bad  habits. 

I  knew  thet  poor  Susan  was  ez  innocent  ez  a  mouse  about  the 
wiles  of  men  folks,  an'  bein'  her  aunt  I  made  up  my  mind  thet  I 
wouldn't  see  her  imposed  on. 

Well,  I  give  the  young  people  a  month  to  get  settled  an'  then  I 
went  over  to  take  tea  with  them. 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.   32.  >j9 

Ed  has  his  father's  old  house  an'  a  farm  thet's  so  full  of  rocks 
thet  I  don't  see  how  he's  goin'  to  git  a  livin'  an'  none  of  the  Haw- 
kins's money  is  a  goin'  thet  way  now  when  I'm  dead  an'  buried.  I 
wore  my  cameo  brooch  thet  Susan  admired  an'  my  Paisley  shawl, 
for  I  didn't  want  her  to  be  shamed  by  her  branch  of  the  family, 
howsomever  the  Johnsons  might  act. 

"Why,  Susan,"  says  I,  as  I  came  in  the  front  door  an'  was 
shown  right  into  the  parlor  an'  tol'  to  set  down  on  the  Johnson 
hair-cloth  sofa  thet  never  was  used  when  Ed's  mother  was  alive, 
"why,  Susan,"  says  I,  "aren't  you  young  folks  gettin'  very  ex- 
travagant, throwin'  your  parlor  open  when  there  ain't  no  funeral 
or  minister  or  anythin'  ?  I'm  jus'  one  of  the  family  an'  you  mustn't 
make  company  of  me." 

"Not  a  bit  of  it,  Aunt  Susan,"  says  she.  "Ed  says  thet  if  things 
ain't  good  to  use  they  ain't  good  for  anythin'." 

Where  Ed  Johnson  got  such  notions  ez  thet,  an'  him  with  a 
rocky  farm,  I'm  sure  I  dunno. 

I  just  felt  of  my  cameo  brooch,  casual  like,  but  thinkin'  it  might 
give  Susan  a  hint  thet  if  I  saw  old  Mis'  Johnson's  things  misused 
I  wouldn't  be  in  a  hurry  to  turn,  my  pin  over  to  some  one  who'd 
wear  it  out  every  day. 

Ed  came  in  an'  he  not  only  slicked  up  before  tea,  but  he  put  on 
the  clothes  he  was  married  in,  ez  fine  black  broadcloth  ez  you'd 
want  to  see. 

"Expectin'  company?"  says  I. 

"No  one  but  you,  Aunt  Susan,"  says  Ed.    "Why  do  you  ask  ?" 

"Oh,"  says  I,  "I  see  you're  all  dressed  up.  I  s'pose  thet's 
'cordin'  to  rule  now  though,  ez  I  see  you  have  the  slips  all  off'n 
your  mother's  parlor  furniture." 

"We  only  live  but  once,  Aunt  Susan,"  says  Ed,  "an'  I  believe 
in  enjoyin'  life  ez  we  go  along." 

Rememberin'  thet  he  was  brought  up  Unitarian  an'  thinkin'  thet 
it  was  only  one  of  their  new-fangled  notions,  I  didn't  argufy  the 
question,  but  I  had  my  doubts  about  Susan's  happiness. 

Ed  talked  a  lot  about  the  stones  on  his  farm  bein'  some  new 
kind  of  marble,  an'  how  there  was  monev  in  them,  but  I  said  I 


ioo  WERNER'S  READINGS 

never  knew  stones  to  be  anythin'  but  a  detriment  'cept  for  fences. 
Susan  had  brought  all  her  plants  from  home  an'  I  do  think  thet 
growin'  plants  is  her  pet  vanity.    When  tea  was  over  Ed  says : 

"Susie,  shall  I  get  after  the.  bugs  to-night?" 

"For  mercy  sake,  Susan,"  says  I,  "if  I  hadn't  heard  Ed  say  so 
I'd  never  believe  it,  an'  Mis'  Johnson  was  such  a  careful  house- 
keeper, too !   Dear,  dear,  but  thet's  too  bad." 

"Hold  on,  Aunt,"  says  Ed,  "you're  on  the  wrong  track,"  an' 
then  I  saw  them  both  laughin'  ez  if  the  minister  had  made  a  joke. 

"Ed's  talkin'  about  the  bugs  on  my  plants,  Aunt,"  says  Susan, 
when  she  stopped  laughin' ;  "an'  he  found  in  a  newspaper  last 
week  a  way  to  kill  them.     Ed's  awfully  thoughtful,  Aunt." 

"Oh,"  says  I,  settin'  up  very  straight,  "I'm  glad  to  hear  it." 

I  ought  to  have  suspicioned  thet  somethin'  terrible  was  comin', 
for  if  you'll  take  perceivance  you'll  notice  thet  men  don't  potter 
around  household  plants  without  havin'  deep  motives.  I  was  thet 
taken  back,  however,  thet  I  was  speechless. 

"Dear  Ed,"  says  Susan,  "I'd  be  very  thankful  if  you  would  give 
the  bugs  a  dose." 

"Certainly,  Susie,"  says  he,  obligin'-like,  and  before  my  eyes  he 
took  down  from  the  clock  shelf  a  pipe  and  a  bag  of  tobacco. 

He  filled  his  pipe,  went  over  an'  sat  down  by  the  plants  an' 
lighted  it.  I  never  seen  any  one  smoke  more  natcheral  like.  He 
blew  out  great  puffs  of  smoke  an'  there  sat  Susie  lookin'  ez  proud 
ez  if  he  was  leadin'  an  experience  meetin'. 

"Well,  for  land  sakes,  Susan  Johnson !"  says  I. 

"Now,  Aunt,"  says  Susan,  "you  are  wrong.  Ed  has  no  bad 
habits.  We  both  noticed  about  a  week  ago  thet  there  was  bugs  on 
my  plants.  I  tried  liquorish  water  an'  camphor  an'  I  declare  I  was 
mos'  sick  about  it.  Then  Ed  came  down  from  the  village  one 
night  with  a  piece  of  one  of  those  N'York  papers.  It  said  thet 
tobacco  smoke  was  the  only  sure  cure  for  plant  bugs. 

"  'Do  you  believe  it,  Ed  ?'  says  I. 

"  'There  it  is  in  the  paper,'  says  he. 

"  'Well,'  says  I,  'the  bugs  are  gettin'  awful  on  them.  I  wish 
you'd  thought  to  bring  some  tobacco  with  you.' 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.    32.  101 

"  'I  did,'  says  he.    Now,  wasn't  thet  thoughtful  of  him,  Aunt  r 

"Well,  we  put  a  little  tobacco  on  a  saucer  an'  tried  to  light  it 
but  it  wouldn't  burn.  Ed  says  that  it  would  only  burn  in  a  pipe. 
an'  to  make  sure  of  savin'  the  plants  he  brought  along  a  pipe. 

"  'Did  you  think,  Ed,'  says  I,  'you  could  burn  a  lettle  tobaccc 
in  a  pipe  for  me  without  gettin'  the  habit?' 

"  'Sure,'  says  he.  An'  he  did  an'  I  think  it's  just  lovely  of  him, 
so  now." 

I  wasn't  born  yesterday,  an'  bein'  of  a  thoughtful  mind  I've 
taken  some  notice  to  the  ways  an'  tricks  of  men.  I  could  almost 
swear  thet  Ed  Johnson  winked  at  me,  but  bein'  a  maiden  lady  I 
didn't  want  to  say  so.  Talk  about  the  deceit  of  women !  It  was 
jus'  ez  I  expected.    I  says  to  Susan : 

"How  long  has  Ed  been  killin'  bugs  for  you  this  way  ?" 

"Since  las'  Saturday,"  she  says. 

"Did  he  burn  up  more'n  one  pipeful  the  first  night  ?" 

"Yes,"  says  she,  "he  said  they  needed  a  big  dose  to  begin  with 
an'  he's  burned  three  pipefuls.  Since  then  he's  burned  two  pipe- 
fuls  every  night. 

"An'  didn't  the  first  make  him  sick?"  says  I. 

"Why,  no,"  says  Susan. 

"Did  Edwin  smoke  before?"  says  I,  an'  I  could  see  he  was  get- 
tin' nervous. 

"No,"  says  Susan,  "certainly  not." 

"Well,  then,"  says  I,  "all  thet  I  can  say  is  thet "    An'  jus' 

then  Ed  Johnson  says  : 

"Look  out,  look  out,  Aunt  Susan ;  there's  a  mouse  jus'  comin' 
out  the  buttery  door." 

I  can't  abide  mice,  an'  I  don't  know  now  whether  there  was  one 
or  not.  I  have  my  suspicions.  I  jumped  up  on  my  chair,  however, 
an'  Ed  knocked  around  with  the  broom  handle  real  hard.  When 
he  finished  makin'  a  racket  he  began : 

"Oh,  Aunt  Susan,  I  heard  Joe  Stebbins  down  to  the  village 
yesterday  tellin'  what  a  good  housekeeper  you  was." 

You  know  thet  some  people  did  say  thet  Joe  used  to  like  me 
bctter'n  Lizzie  Hooper,  who  is  now  Mis'  Stebbins.     I  wasn't  par- 


to2  WERNER'S  READINGS 

tic'lary  curious  to  know  what  Joe  Stebbins  had  said  about  me  for 
myself,  but  I  knew  thet  if  it  could  get  back  to  Lizzie  it  would 
make  her  real  angry,  an'  I  declare,  in  askin'  Ed  questions  I  for- 
got all  about  smokin'  an'  I  went  home  leavin'  thet  poor  child  in 
innocence  about  thet  man's  deception. 

You  can't  tell  me  thet  if  he  hadn't  been  hardened  in  the  tobacco 
habit  smokin'  wouldn't  have  made  him  ez  sick.  You  can't  fool 
me.  An'  I  haven't  been  back  to  the  Johnsons'  house  since,  be- 
cause Ed  ez  much  ez  told  me  to  stay  away. 

You  see,  his  old  rocks  did  turn  out  to  be  marble,  an'  some  folks 
say  ez  how  he  will  die  rich.  They  won't  need  any  of  the  Hawkins 
money,  which  is  fortunate,  considerin'.  I  suppose  such  deceitful- 
ness  from  man  to  woman  is  one  of  the  burdens  we  females  have 
to  bear  because  of  Eve's  sins. 

They  say  Susan  an'  Ed's  happy  an'  thet  Ed  regularly  every 
night  kills  the  bugs  on  Susan's  plants.  Well,  it  ain't  none  of  my 
business,  p'r'aps,  but  I  can't  help  feelin'  bad  for  Susan. 


PERPLEXED. 


LAST  night  I  kissed  her  in  the  hall — 
My  promised  wife. 
She  said,  "Now  tell  me  truly  this — 
Another  girl  did  you  e'er  kiss 
In  all  your  life?" 

I  gazed  down  in  her  pleading  face 

And  told  her,  "No." 
Now,  why  did  she,  with  pensive  sigh 
And  sad  look  in  her  soft  blue  eye, 

Say,  "I  thought  so?" 

The  game  she  gave  me,  you'll  admit, 

Was  pretty  stiff, 
And  as  I  homeward  went  my  way 
And  thought  on  what  I'd  heard  her  say, 

I  wondered  if — 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.   32.  103 

THE  COMFORTABLE  CORNER 


Comedy  Monologue  for  a  Man. 


Translated  from   the   French   of  M.   Armand  Sylvestre   by   Lucy   Hayes 
Macqueen  especially  for  this  book. 


Character  :     The  Bachelor,  Speaker,  present,  who  directs  all 
his  conversation  direct  at  audience. 

I  AM  a  bachelor — and  I  am  a  well-bred,  well-behaved  man.  I 
simply  say  this  to  let  you  know  that  I  have  no  bad  habits 
which  prevent  me  from  offering  myself  a  victim  at  the  altar  of 
Hymen — no,  none  whatever.  I  have  simply  found  myself  suffi- 
cient unto  myself.  Why  take  another  into  partnership,  when  I 
am  capable  of  running  the  business  myself?  I  have  weighed  my 
own  individuality  and  found  myself  worthy.  I  am  on  very  good 
terms  with  myself. 

Now,  a  single  man  who  has  nobody  and  nothing  tied  to  his 
heels  cannot  do  a  better  thing  than  travel  about  and  see  life.  All 
railroad  directors  and  steamboat  officials  will  tell  you  the  very 
same  thing. 

I  console  myself  for  the  loneliness  inherent  in  a  bachelor  life 
by  traveling.  I  pass  half  of  my  life  in  going  on  journeys,  and  the 
other  half  in  returning  from  journeys,  and  I  shall  in  all  proba- 
bility do  this  up  to  that  fatal  last  journey  of  all  for  which  I  shall 
buy  no  return  trip  ticket,  for  I  shall  never  return. 

I  am  a  fellow  who  loves  his  ease,  so  I  always  travel  as  com- 
fortably as  possible.  I  wear  a  silk  cap,  you  know,  the  kind  that 
sheds  all  the  dust ;  a  little  flask  of  brandy ;  a  little  giblet  patty  in 
my  portmanteau ;  a  good  novel ; — but,  oh,  above  all,  when  I  have 
to  pass  the  night  on  the  train,  give  me  my  comfortable  corner 
sleeping  compartment ! 

It  is  not  because  I  am  more  comfortable  there  than  I  would 


IG4  WERNER'S  READINGS 

be  in  any  of  the  other  compartments  which  cost  the  same  price, 
it  is  not  because  human  nature  loves  a  bargain ;  it  is  not  because 
I  am  cooler  in  the  corner  than  I  would  be  in  the  middle  of  the  car 
surrounded  by  all  the  passengers  and  a  load  of  stuffed  horse-hair 
cushions ;  no — it  is  because  I  am  a  poet  and  love  to  see  the  be- 
lated traveler  rush  after  the  train  and  try  to  throw  himself  on  to 
the  platform  near  me,  and  I  like  to  look  out  of  the  window  and 
see  the  receding  landscape  as  I  fly  along — you  can  see  better  from 
the  corner  of  the  last  car  than  you  can  anywhere  else  on  the 
train. 

Now,  I  tell  you  that  I  am  a  poet  because  you  might  not  take 
me  for  one  if  you  should  ever  meet  me  in  a  crowded  waiting-room 
waiting  for  a  train.  I  tell  you  this  beforehand  so  that  you  will 
not  be  surprised  at  my  behavior,  then,  for  in  spite  of  my  poetic 
feelings  I  will  jostle  you  terribly  so  as  to  get  ahead  of  you  into 
that  righthand  corner  compartment  at  the  end  of  the  car.  I  have 
been  known  slyly  to  kick  a  chair  in  front  of  the  other  passengers 
for  them  to  fall  over,  so  as  to  get  ahead  of  them  into  that  corner. 
It  is  a  very  good  old  trick — that  chair  trick,  but  do  not  employ  it 
upon  me,  if  you  see  me  coming  into  a  car  where  you  may  be,  for  I 
warn  you  that  I  would  return  the  compliment  by  shoving  a  sofa 
or  a  table  in  front  of  you  to  keep  you  out  of  that  corner. 

Well,  in  starting  for  Paris  last  night  I  secured  my  corner  as  I 
have  done  hundreds  of  times  before, — I  had  employed  the  chair 
for  my  fellow  passengers  to  stumble  over — and  the  air  was  per- 
fectly blue  with  bad  language  as  we  began  our  journey.  I  had 
just  rolled  a  good  cigarette  to  scare  all  ladies  away  from  my 
Corner,  and  had  made  a  perfect  barricade  of  the  seats  around  me 
with  my  hat,  overcoat,  portmanteau,  umbrella, — I  even  took  out 
the  contents  of  my  portmanteau  and  spread  them  about  so  as  to 
insure  plenty  of  room. 

Thanks  to  my  barricade,  every  passenger  who  opened  the  door 
and  looked  toward  my  corner  immediately  retreated. 

Soon  I  heard  the  signal  for  starting, — I  was  saved.  Dear  night ! 
Incomparable  for  dreams  and  revery !  A  full  moon !  How  the 
trees  flew  along  under  the  stars ! 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.    32.  105. 

What  then  did  I  hear?  A' dastardly  conductor  yelling:  "Here, 
sir;  here,  madam;  there  is  room  here." 

My  privacy  was  invaded.  A  couple  were  thrust  rudely  in  upon 
me.  The  woman  was  charming — the  man,  beastly.  You'll  find 
it  always  that  way. 

I  took  no  notice  of  them,  but  allowed  them  to  install  themselves 
in  the  other  side  of  the  compartment.  The  lady  went  to  the  left 
— the  gentleman  to  the  right.  He  immediately  put  on  his  slip- 
pers without  asking  my  permission.  I  did  not  revenge  myself 
upon  him  my  immediately  donning  mine,  for  I  believe  I  have 
told  you  that  I  am  a  well-bred  man.  I  simply  contented  myself 
with  pitying  the  poor  creature  who  had  to  live  with  him. 

These  people  were  soon  very  quiet  and  I  decided  not  to  look 
toward  them  and  to  try  to  imagine  that  I  had  the  place  all  to 
myself. 

•  Oh,   charming  night,  filled  with  meditation  and  ecstasy !     It 
seemed  a  little  colder !   A  mist  had  passed  over  the  moon. 

But  there !    That  villainous  conductor  was  howling  again : 

"Here,  sir ;  here,  madam ;  there  is  room  enough  here,  but  hurry 
up." 

The  door  opened  and  another  couple  swooped  down  upon  me — 
the  woman,  pretty,  the  man — a  cyclops.    You'll  always  find  it  so. 

Then  what  do  you  think  I  did?  A  frightful  battle  was  fought 
for  an  instant  between  my  love  of  ease  and  my  refined  sense  of 
delicacy.  Follow  me — I  beg  of  you.  If  I  retained  my  corner,  my 
charming  neighbor  would  be  forced  to  sit  opposite  me,  and  her 
husband  would,  of  course,  have  to  sit  beside  her  to  protect  her — 
then,  you  see  she  could  not  lie  down  at  all,  but  would  be  obliged 
to  sit  up,  bolt-upright,  all  night.  If  I  gave  my  seat  to  her  hus- 
band she  would  still  have  to  suffer,  for  I  would  sit  near  her  and 
be  obliged  to  watch  that  beast  lie  down  and  sleep  placidly  on  soft 
cushions,  while  she  and  I — no — I  gave  her  my  corner.  I  did  so 
in  less  time  than  it  has  taken  to  tell.  The  unbearable  man  seated 
himself  at  my  left  and  never  even  said :    "Thank  you." 

As  shameless  as  the  first  man,  he  proceeded  to  make  a  night 
toilet  without  even  begging  my  pardon — his  wife  did  not,  either, 


106  WERNER'S  READINGS 


but  she,  more's  the  pity,  did  not  make  a  night  toilet  in  front  of 
me. 

I  could  no  longer  make  believe  that  I  was  alone  and  ignore 
my  neighbors.  My  night  was  lost !  The  moon  had  gone  in  be- 
hind a  cold  mist. 

Once  I  carelessly  glanced  over  at  my  first  couple.  I  beheld  the 
ugly  profile  of  the  man's  face,  sitting  beside  me,  for  all  the  world 
like  a  crow's — if  I  had  looked  long  at  it,  it  would  have  driven  me 
mad. 

Presently  I  gazed  at  the  first  couple.  They  were  fast  asleep — 
the  lady  like  a  drooping  lily — the  man  like  an  ogre. 

I  resigned  myself  to  my  fate  and  tried  to  sleep  with  the  serene 
consciousness  that  though  the  men  could  not  appreciate  my  deli- 
cacy and  self-immolation — the  ladies  could  and  did — and  only 
the  fear  of  exciting  the  jealousy  of  their  husbands  kept  them  from 
expressing  to  me  their  thanks.  I  had  no  doubt  that  they  had 
mentally  compared  me  with  their  beastly  husbands  much  to  my 
advantage. 

My  back  felt  as  if  it  was  broken,  but  my  conscience  was  peace- 
ful— and  it  was  sweet  to  suffer  for  that  half  of  the  creation  which 
is  so  incomparably  more  beautiful  than  the  other  half.  Delight- 
ful martyrdom.  I  even  pretended  to  sleep,  so  as  not  to  disturb 
the  dear  creatures. 

Then  what  did  I  hear?  My  pretty  neighbor,  opposite,  was 
awake.  She  stole  gently  over  to  my  hateful  companion  and 
whispered  to  him  as  she  designated  me.  with  a  look.  I  know  it 
is  not  polite,  but  I  could  not  help  listening: 

"Poor  dearie !  Why  don't  you  ask  that  idiot  if  he  is  anywhere's 
near  his  destination  yet,  so  that  you  may  lie  down  and  stretch 
your  legs  ?" 


And  now,  brother  bachelors,  give  me  your  corners,  please.  1 
am  going  to  be  married  just  to  have  the  pleasure  of  taking  those 
corners  from  you  and  hearing  my  wife  call  you  idiots  afterwards. 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.   32-  10; 

HOW   UNCLE   MOSE   COUNTS. 


Negro  Dialect  Comedy  Monologue  for  a  Man. 


Arranged  as  a  monologue  expressly  for  this  book  by  Stanley  Schell. 


Characters  Represented:     Uncle    Mose,    Speaker,    present; 

Mrs.  Burton,  and  other  persons  supposed  to  be  present. 
Make-Up  :  Poor  old  darkey,  a  regular  chatterer  and  gossip. 
Stage-Setting  :    A  street  in  the  South  or  an  exterior  scene. 

Scene  :  Enter  Uncle  Mose  with  basket  of  eggs  on  arm,  and 
carrying  a  folding  chair  on  the  other  arm.  He  shambles  along 
as  if  it  were  too  much  effort  to  move,  occasionally  wipes  face 
with  big  red  bandanna  handkerchief.  As  he  approaches  side 
of  stage  where  houses  are  supposed  to  be  he  begins  to  shout. 

Points  :  Whenever  Uncle  Mose  asks  a  question,  he  invariably 
stops  between  sentences  and  eagerly  watches  the  face  of  the 
person  with  whom  he  speaks. 

AIGS,  aigs !  fraish  aigs !  from  honest  ole  Mose.  Try  mah 
fraish  aigs.  Aigs,  aigs,  aigs  !  Yas'm,  fraish  laid  dis  mornin' 
— yas'm — firty  cents  a  dozen.  Dear?  Hens  cain't  'ford  to  lay 
no  cheaper  dis  wedder.  [Moves  on.]  Aigs!  Aigs!  Aigs!  fraish 
laid  aigs — ony  firty  cents  dozen. 

Good  mornin',  Miss  Burton,  good  mornin'.  Yas,  indeed,  I  has. 
Jes'  receibed  tan  dozen  fraish  from  de  hens  dis  bery  mornin'. 
Fraish?  Yas,  I  guantees  'em,  an' — an' — de  hen  guantees  'em. 
Nine  dozen?  In  der  basket?  Oh,  yas,  'M — yas,  'M — All  right, 
M'm. 

[Begins  to  take  eggs  from  basket  zvhich  he  has  placed  on  the 
opened  folding-chair  and  puts  eggs  gently  into  woman's  basket. 
Counts  and  talks  and,  as  a  result,  makes  mistakes.] 

One,  two,  free,  foah,  five,  six,  seben,  eight,  nine,  ten Oh, 

yas  'm,  you  kin  'ly  on  dem  bein'  fraish.  How's  yo'  son  comin' 
on  in  de  school  ?    Mus'  be  mos'  grown. 

A  dark  in  de  bank?  Why  how  ole  am  de  boy?  Eighteen? 
You  doan  tole  me  so !    Eighteen  and  gittin'  a  sal'ry  'ready 


108  :   WERNER'S  READINGS 

Eighteen  [counts  and  puts  eggs  in  basket],  nineteen,  twenty, 
twenty-one,  twenty-two,  twenty-free,  twenty-foah,  twenty-five. 

An'  how's  yo'  gal  a-comin'  on  ?  Mos'  growed  up  de  last  time  I 
seed  her.  Married  and  livin'  farder  south?  Wall,  I  do  declar', 
how  de  time  scoots  away !  And  you  say  she  hes  chilluns  ?  Why, 
how  ole  am  de  gal?    She  mus'  be  jes'  about Firty-free? 

Amdatso?  [Begins  putting  more  eggs  in  basket.]  Firty-free, 
firty-foah,  firty-five,  firty-six,  firty-seben,  firty-eight,  firty-nine, 
forty,  forty-one,  forty-two,  forty-free.  Hit  am  sing'lar  dat  you 
hab  sech  old  chilluns.    You  doan  look  more'n  forty  yars  ole  yersef. 

Nonsense?  Flatter  you?  Fifty- free  yars  ole?  Dis  ole  darkey 
hain't  got  no  time  to  flatter.  An'  fifty- free!  I  jes  dun  gwinter 
bleeve  hit;  fifty-free  [goes  on  counting  eggs  and  putting  them 
in  basket],  fifty-foah,  fifty-five,  fifty-six — : —  I  done  wan'  you  to 
pay  'tenshun  when  I  count  de  eggs,  so  dar'll  be  no  mistake.  Fifty- 
nine,    sixty,  i  sixty-one,     sixty-two,      sixty-free,     sixty-foah 

Whew !  dis  am  a  warm  day.  [Mops  brow  and  rests  a  moment, 
looking  about.] 

Dis  am  de  time  ob  de  year  when  I  feels  dat  I'se  gettin'  ole 
mysef.  I  hain't  long  fer  dis  world.  You  comes  from  de  bery 
fustes'  family  in  de  south,  Miss  Burton,  an'  when  yo'  fadder  died 
he  was  sebenty  yars  ole. 

Sebenty-two?  Oh,  yas  'm — I  done  fergot.  Dat's  old,  suah. 
Sebenty-two  [counts],    sebenty- free,    sebenty- foah,    sebenty-five, 

sebenty-six,  sebenty-seben,  sebenty-eight,  sebenty-nine An' 

yo'  mudder,  Miss  Burton  ?  She  was  one  of  de  likeliest  lookin' 
ladies  I  ebber  seed.  An  you  'minds  me  ob  her  so  much!  She 
libed  to  mos'  a  hundred.    I  bleeves  she'  was  done  past  a  centuren 

when  she  died Ony  ninety-six  when  she  died?    Den  she 

died  'fo'  I  done  thought.     [Counts.] 

Ninety-six,  ninety-seben,  ninety-eight,  ninety-nine,  one  hun- 
dred,— one,  two,  free,  foah,  five,  six,  seben,  eight.  Dere,  dat's  one 
hundred  an'  eight  nice  fraish  aigs — jes  nine  dozen,  an'  here  am 
one  more  fraish  aig  in  case  I  discounted  mysef.  Good  mornin', 
Mis'  Burton.  ,.a  <# 

[Moves  about  stage  shouting.]  -:<       .     '.<-s>  $m        • 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.   32.  109 

Aigs,  aigs,  aigs !  No,  ma'am,  only  one  dozen  left  to-day — kin 
take  yer  order  fer  to-morrer.  [Moves  on.]  Aigs,  aigs,  aigs! 
Why,  .Mis'  Burton,  whut  yo'  call  dis  nigger  ?  Now,  yo'  nos  I 
neber  stole  a  t'ing  in  mah  life.  You  heerd  me  a  countin'  ob  dem 
aigs.  You  recollects  I  tole  you  to  see  I  done  counts  straight,  an' 
frowed  in  one  in  case  I  done  discounts  wrong.  Yer  knows  I 
counted  straight?  Yo'  gal?  Hab  you  one  ob  dem  low  white 
trash  fer  a  serbent?  You  has — den  dat  'splains.  She  stole  dem 
extry  aigs,  I  reckon.  You  feel  sure  I  done  tell  de  truf  ?  Dat  am 
so,  Mis'  Burton ;  I  neber  cheated  no  one,  an'  I  wouldn't ;  I'se  an' 
honest  nigger,  I  is,  an'  you  knows  it.  Yo'  suah  now  I  didn't  ?  It's 
dat  white  gal.  You'll  send  her  away?  Dat  am  de  only  way  to 
do.  De  ideah  ob  sayin'  I  didn't  count  dem  aigs  straight.  T'ank 
yo',  Mis'  Burton;  de  nex'  time  we'll  count  dem  aigs  togeder,  so 
no  low  down  white  trash  kin  put  dirt  on  mah  name  agin.  Good 
mornin',  good  mornin'.  [Goes  toward  exit.]  Aigs,  aigs!  fraish 
aigs!    De  idea,  ez  ef  I  didn't  know  how  to  count  c'rectly.  [Exit.] 


LOVE  IN   LENT. 


LOVE  hides  behind  the  door, 
'Tis  Lent; 
His  quiver's  on  the  floor, 

'Tis  Lent; 
The  maiden  bows  her  head, 
The  maiden's  prayer  is  said, 
The  holy  book  is  read, 
'Tis  Lent. 

Love  hears  a  step  outside— 

'Tis  Lent — 
Love  starts  up,  eager-eyed — 

'Tis  Lent ! 
A  man  comes  in,  and  lo ! 
Love  blithely  draws  his  bow— 
A  twang !    And  oh — and  oh, 

'Tis  Lent ! 


no  WERNER'S   READINGS 


ABBIE'S  ACCOUNTS. 


Comedy  Monologue  for  a  Woman. 


TUDOR  JENKS. 


Character  :    Mrs.  Abbie  Appleby,  Speaker,  present. 

Costume:    House  costume. 

Scene  :    A  sitting-room.    Abbie  discovered  at  desk. 

THERE  is  one  comfort  about  being  a  married  woman — that  is, 
of  course,  there  are  more  than  one — there  are  a  good  many ; 
but  one  especially,  I  mean.  And  that  is  to  have  a  right  to.  some 
of  the  luxuries  of  life.  Now,  a  husband  isn't  like  an  elder  sister. 
Of  all  creatures  that  tyrannize  over  their  kind,  an  elder  sister  is 
the  very  worst.  A  husband  is  rather — well,  rather  bossy, — Alfred 
says  "bossy,"  and  it's  a  real  good  word, — but  then  you  prefer  that 
from  them.  Besides,  one's  husband  is  a  man,  you  know ;  and  one 
expects  men  to  be  a  little  masterful.  Alfred  is,  sometimes,^and 
— I  think  I  like  it.  It  is  such  a  comfort  to  have  some  one  else  to 
take  the  responsibility — for  things,  you  know.  And  that  reminds 
me — Alfred  said  I  should  keep  accounts,  now  I'm  married. 
Where  has  that  account-book  gone  to,  anyway  ?  I'm  sure  I  put  it 
here  under  this  pile  of  invitations  to  those  five-o'clock  nuisances — 
I  just  hate  them!  The  impudence  of  that  Hanson  woman — with 
her  teas !  She  seems  to  think  tea  is  a  kind  of  legal  tender !  I've 
sent  her  cards  for  the  last  six — where  in  the  world  is  that  ac- 
count-book? Oh,  I  remember;  I  left  it  in  the  pocket  of  my  blue 
serge — or  was  it  my  gray  cashmere  ?  That  old  cashmere !  I 
meant  to  leave  it  at  home,  but  Ellen  packed  it  in.  It's  worse  than 
the  "Colonel's  Opera  Cloak."  Let  me  see — it's  in  the  closet  up- 
stairs. [Starts  toward  door;  then  returns. .]  No,  it  isn't  in  the 
pocket  of  the  cashmere — it  hasn't  any  pocket.  I  remember  now ; 
I  put  it  in  the  top  drawer  of  my  desk — one  of  them.  [Opens  top 
drawer.]     No.     Where  can  the  old  thing— heavens,  what  a  lot 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.    32.  in 

of  old  stamps !  I  had  forgotten  those.  Those  are  for  that  Van 
Blankenstyne  girl.  When  she  got  a  billion  she  was  going  to 
endow  a  negro  orphan  baby  in  the  South.  He  must  be  grown  up 
by  this  time  !  Let  me  see ;  I  began  to  collect  those  stamps  in  eigh- 
teen hundred  and — I  don't  know  when.  It  must  be  years  and 
years — long  before  Susie  was  married,  and  her  oldest  is — I  don't 
know  how  old.  Too  old  for  dolls,  anyway,  because  I  thought  of 
giving  her  a  doll  for  Christmas,  ana  then  changed  to  a  book. 
Where  is  that  old  book?  Probably  in  the  other  drawer.  [Opens 
other  drawer  and  finds  it.]  Here  you  are!  How  good  the  Russia 
leather  smells  !  I  like  red  leather  ;  it's  so  business-like.  [Spreads 
book  out  on  desk.] 

Now  where's  the  ink?  [Looks  into  inkstand,  and  turns  it  up- 
side down,  making  a  face  when  she  finds  it  empty.]  Never  mind. 
A  pencil  is  just  as  good — and  better,  if  I  should  make  mistakes.  I 
wonder  if  I  remember  my  multiplication  table?  Seven  times  used 
to  be  a — horror !  Seven  times  seven  are  forty-nine,  and  seven 
times  eight  are  fifty.  That  isn't  right.  Fifty-two,  I  guess.  Let 
me  see.  [Counts  on  fingers.]  It's  so  good  to  be  married.  They 
didn't  use  to  let  me  count  on  my  fingers  at  school.  Forty-nine, 
fifty,  fifty-one,  fifty-two,  three,  four,  five,  six.  Seven  times  nine 
are  fifty-six.  [Turns  to  desk  again.]  Now,  what  do  you  put 
down  first?  It's  either  "debtor"  or  "creditor"  to  Alfred.  He 
gave  me  $35  yesterday  morning,  all  in  fives.  So  am  I  his  creditor 
or  debtor?  He  gives  it  to  me,  you  see,  so  I  am  his  debtor  for  it. 
Of  course.  And  he's  my  creditor.  All  right ;  here  goes  !  [  Writes 
for  a  moment.]  Now  that  looks  real  sweet! — "Alfred  Appleby, 
Creditor."  And  on  the  other  page,  "Abbie  Appleby,  Debtor." 
But,  let  me  see — where  am  I  to  put  down  what  I  spend  it  for  ?  I 
know  they  use  only  two  pages ;  I  remember  hearing  papa  talk 
about  taking  a  trial  balance,  and  you  can't  balance  three  things — 
unless  you're  a  juggler.  I  think  I'll  tear  these  two  pages  out. 
No,  I  won't ;  it's  only  in  pencil ;  I  can  rub  it  out.  [Rubs  vigor- 
ously, and  then  blows  the  pages.]  I  don't  wonder  papa  gets 
tired  over  his  accounts.  It  must  be  awful  to  be  a  bookkeeper,  and 
get  all  covered  with  red  ink. 


ii2  WERNER'S  READINGS 

[Looks  around  and  sees  a  package.']  Goodness!  I  forgot  that 
Chinese  silk  for  the  curtains.  I  must  look  at  it  before  I  go  on 
with  my  accounts.  I  am  tired  of  figuring,  anyway.  [Opens  pack- 
age and  spreads  out  silk.]  How  cheap  these  silks  are  nowadays! 
This  was  only — only  forty-five  cents  a  yard,  and.  there's  enough 
to  make  a  dress.  I  wonder  how  I'd  look  in  it.  [Drapes  it  around 
her.]  There!  [Strikes  attitude  before  mirror.]  I  look  like  a 
duchess  at  least.  I  wonder  what  duchesses  look  like,  anyway?  I 
wish  I  could  travel  and  see  things.  It  must  be  splendid  to  be  rich 
—real  rich,  so  that  you  don't  care  a  bit  how  much  you  spend,  and 
don't  have  to  keep  accounts.  Oh,  that  reminds  me — I  must  go 
on  with  my  account-book.  I  promised  Alfred  that  I  would  have 
it  ready  for  him  this  evening  when  he  came  home.  But  he  won't 
care,  even  if  I  don't  have  it  ready.  Now,  that's  the  difference. 
If  it  were  papa,  why,  I  just  have  to  be  ready.  What  a  comfort  it 
is  that  your  husband  isn't  your  father !  And  how  absurd  it  would 
be  to  be  your  own  grandchild — or  something  like  that!  [Goes  to 
desk,  and  takes  up  account-book.] 

Why !  I  thought  I  had  done  a — lot !  And  I  rubbed  it  all  out. 
Never  mind ;  a  new  broom  sweeps  clean.  Oh,  I  remember — it  was 
that  debtor  and  creditor  thing  that  stopped  me.  After  all,  what 
difference  does  it  make  ?  Alfred  doesn't  care.  I'll  choose  one  of 
them  and  put  it  down.  [Writes.]  "Abbie  Appleby,  Debtor." 
And  now,  on  the  other  side  [writes] ,  "Alfred  Appleby,  Creditor." 
There !  Next  I  put  down  what  he  gave  me.  He  gave  me — let  me 
see  [chewing  end  of  pencil] — it  was  $35  before  I  bought  the  lace 
for  hat  trimming ;  and  it  cost  $2.99  a  yard;  and  I  bought  2.y% 
yards.  My!  that's  a  puzzle!  How  did  we  use  to  do  it  at  school? 
What  a  lot  papa  spent  on  my  school  bills,  and  much  good  it  does 
me  now !  Let  me  see — here  is  the  way  Miss  Gumption  used  to  do 
them.  [Imitating.]  "If  2^  yards  of  lace  cost  $2.99  a  yard,  and 
if  Alfred  gave  Abbie  $35,  how  much  did  Abbie  have  to  start 
with?"  [Suddenly,  as  she  sees  through  the  problem.]  Humph, 
that's  easy !  She  had  $35,  of  course !  After  all,  an  education  is 
worth  something !  I  suppose  that  is  what  men  call  logic.  I  think 
guessing's  easier. 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.   32.  113 

Well,  the  answer  is  $35,  and  it  goes  down  under  [pause]  — 
under  [recklessly] — "Creditor."  There!  Alfred  is  my  creditor 
for  $35.  That  is  plain.  [Writes  it  down.]  Next  comes  the  lace. 
Alfred  isn't  creditor  for  that,  /  know.  So  down  it  goes.  [  Writes; 
then,  after  a  moment  of  reflection,  she  speaks  abruptly.]  How 
ridiculous !  "Abbie  Appleby,  debtor,  to  lace,  $2.99  multiplied 
by  2^" — but  I'm  not.  I  can't  be  debtor  when  I  paid  for  it;  and 
the  idea  of  making  Alfred  creditor  for  several  yards  of  lace, 
when  he  doesn't  know  anything  about  lace,  is  too  absurd  for  any 
use !  I  shan't  change  it,  anyway.  How  much  does  it  make  ?  Two 
dollars  multiplied  by  two  yards  is  four — four  what  ?  It  can't  be 
done.  You  can't  multiply  yards  by  dollars,  I'm  sure.  I  remember 
that  much.  Why,  Miss  Gumption  used  to  tease  us  dreadfully 
about  that.  She  used  to  say,  "Two  oranges  multiplied  by  four 
apples  makes  what?"  And  then  the  other  girls — the  ones  she 
didn't  ask — would  all  laugh.  And  how  that  ridiculous  Susie 
Brewer  did  giggle !  That  was  all  she  knew — arithmetic,  and 
things  like  that.  She  couldn't  do  a  thing  with  Virgil — and  she's 
an  old  maid  now,  too. 

But  I  mustn't  wander  so.  I  wish  I  knew  more  about  accounts. 
Alfred  will  think  I'm  a  perfect  ignoramus.  It's  his  own  fault.  If 
he  wanted  somebody  to  keep  accounts,  he  ought  to  have  married 
Susie  Brewer;  but  he  couldn't  bear  her — he  never  could.  Said 
she  gave  him  the  creeps  just  to  look  at  her  frizzes.  Still,  it's  a 
good  thing  to  be  systematic;  and  that  reminds  me — I  wonder 
what  time  it  is.  I  didn't  bring  my  watch.  [Rises  and  searches 
for  it.]  I  know  I  put  it  somewhere.  [Tries  to  recollect  where.] 
Ah,  I  know !  It  fell  out  of  my  pocket  when  I  was  taking  off  my 
jacket.  It  must  be  on  the  floor  near  the  bureau.  [Searches  there, 
and  finds  it.  Picks  it  tip.]  I  hope  it  isn't  hurt!  [Looks  at  the 
cover.]  No;  none  of  the  pearls  are  out.  Now,  what  was  it  I 
wanted  it  for !  Oh,  yes — to  see  the  time.  I'll  have  to  wind  it  first. 
I'm  glad  it's  a  stem-winder.  [Tries  to  wind  it.]  But  it  won't 
move  but  a  click  or  two.  It  must  be  wound.  [Puts  it  to  ear.] 
Yes — why  [in  a  tone  of  great  surprise],  it's  going!  The  sweet 
little  thing.     I  guess  I  must  have  wound  it  some  time  or  other: 


H4  WERNER'S  READINGS 

[Opens  watch.]  But  it  caw'*  be  so  late.  [Shakes  watch  and  puts 
it  to  ear  again.]  Yes,  it's  going.  I  must  really  hurry,  or  I  shan't 
have  my  accounts  ready. 

Where  was  I?  [Examines  book.]  $2.99  multiplied  by  2%  is 
— I  never  can  do  it  in  the  world !  Why,  it's  fractions  and  decimals 
mixed!  [Sighs.  After  a  moment  seizes  pencil  confidently.]  I 
wonder  I  didn't  think  of  that  before !  Of  course  $2.99  is  prac- 
tically the  same  as  three  dollars,  and  2^  is  nearly  three  yards; 
and  three  times  three  are  nine  yards.  [Perplexed;  then  face 
clears.]  What  a  goose!  Dollars,  of  course!  nine  dollars;  and 
except  for  car-fares  and  the  caramels,  that's  really  all  I  spent. 
Call  it  ten  dollars.  [Writes  it  down.]  Then  $35  less  $10  is  $25, 
and  that's  what  is  called  the  capital.  No,  that's  not  the  right 
word.  [Thinks.]  I  think  the  word  bookkeepers  use  is  "deficit," 
but  I  don't  like  it.  There  is  one  commences  with  B,  I'm  sure.  It 
must  be — "bonus";  that's  it!  [Writes.]  "To  bonus,  $25."  Now 
I  must  see  if  I  have  that  much  cash.  [Laughs.]  Why,  how  fool- 
ish of  me !  That's  the  very  word ;  I've  heard  papa  say  it  often 
and  often.  [Scratches  out  the  last  entry,  and  rewrites.]  There, 
that's  better ;   "To  cash,  $25." 

Where's  my  pocket-book?  Here.  Now  let's  see.  [Counts 
change;  stops  suddenly,  and  examines  one  piece  of  money.]  I 
knew  she  was  a  hateful — that  impudent  thing  at  Brady's !  She's 
given  me  a  fifty-cent  piece  with  a  hole  in  it !  What  a  sly,  deceitful 
thing  she  must  be  !  And  yet  they  ask  people  to  have  sympathy  for 
those  wretches !  No  doubt  that  brazen  creature  makes  a  good  liv- 
ing by  passing  bad  fifty-cent  pieces  on  customers !  It's  certainly 
a  wrong  thing  to  do.  And  how  can  I  get  rid  of  it?  [Reflects.] 
Alfred  says  they  take  all  kinds  of  money  at  liquor  stores ;  I  sup- 
pose they  pass  them  off  on  drunken  men.  I  might  give  it  to  Al- 
fred. [Stops  and  laughs.]  Well,  what  am  I  to  do?  I  can't  put 
that  down  as  "debtor"  or  "creditor,"  because  neither  Alfred  nor 
I  have  anything  to  do  with  it.  And  I'm  sure  I  can't  put  it  down 
to  that  girl  at  Brady's — but  I  might ;  I  can  open  a  sort  of  account 
with  her ;  "Brady's  shop  girl,  debtor,  one  plugged  fifty-cent  piece." 
And  then  I  should  have  to  open  an  opposite  page  with  "Abbie 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.   32.  115 

Appleby,  creditor,  fifty  cents — out."  [Bell  rings.]  Oh,  that's 
Alfred! — I  remember  I  borrowed  his  latch-key — and  I  haven't 
finished  my  accounts !  No  matter,  I've  made  a  good  beginning. 
And  he  won't  blame  his  little  wife,  bless  him !  He  didn't  marry 
me  because  he  thought  I  was  a  good  bookkeeper.  I  hear  his  step ; 
I'll  go  meet  him.    The  darling!    [Exit.] 


KEEP  A-GOIN'. 


FRANK  L.  STANTON. 


IF  you  strike  a  thorn  or  rose, 
Keep  a-goin' ! 
If  it  hails  or  if  it  snows, 

Keep  a-goin' ! 
'Tain't  no  use  to  sit  an'  whine 
When  the  fish  ain't  on  your  line; 
Bait  your  hook  an' keep  a-tryin' — 
Keep  a-goin' ! 

When  the  weather  kills  your  crop, 
Keep  a-goin' ! 

Though  'tis  work  to  reach  the  top, 
Keep  a-goin' ! 

S'pose  you're  out  o'  ev'ry  dime, 

Gittin'  broke  ain't  any  crime ; 

Tell  the  world  you're  feelin'  fine- 
Keep  a-goin' ! 

When  it  looks  like  all  is  up, 

Keep  a-goin' ! 
Drain  the  sweetness  from  the  cup, 

Keep  a-goin' ! 
See  the  wild  birds  on  the  wing, 
Hear  the  bells  that  sweetly  ring, 
When  you  feel  like  singin'  sing — 

Keep  a-goin' ! 


n6  WERNER'S  READINGS 


THE  PIANO-TUNER. 


Comedy  Monologue  for  a  Man. 


Translated  and  arranged  from  the  French  expressly  for  this  book  by  Lucy 

Hayes  Macqueen, 


Character  :  The  Piano-Tuner,  Speaker,  present.  Dressed  in 
black  without  a  collar,  he  sits  at  piano  and  speaks  while  strik- 
ing chords  and  running  scales  at  random. 

A  MAN  has  been  Quixotical  enough  to  steal  my  wife — a  Don 
Quixote  whom  ugliness  inspires,  for  my  wife  is  ugly. 
And  in  spite  of  all  my  domestic  unhappiness  I  have  to  go — poor, 
humble  workman  that  I  am — faithfully  to  fulfil  my  sad  task  of 
piano-tuning. 

[Plays  piano.] 

Do — mi — sol — do — ri — fa — la — ri — mi — sol — si — mi. 

I  awaken  the  sleeping  soul  of  music  in  the  keyboard;  give  life 
to  the  dull,  dead  white  and  black  ivory.  I  am  full  of  zeal ;  I  come 
with  the  sun  to  tune  my  pianos.  Oh,  the  miserable  drollery  of 
the  thought  that  I  went  forth  every  morning  to  restore  harmony 
to  poor  instruments  that  had  been  put  out  of  tune  by  unskilful 
fingers,  and  I  returned  at  evening  to  hear  the  shrill,  discordant 
voice  of  my  ugly  wife  fill  the  air  with  her  complaints.  Then, 
when  I  was  as  tired  and  worn  out  as  a  black  slave  with  my  hard 
day's  work,  I  had  to  give  her  my  hard-earned  money  with  which 
to  bedeck  her  ugliness. 

[Plays  a  scale.] 
In  the  hall  where  the  night's  revel  has  left  everything  in  dis- 
order, restoring  ruined  flats  and  sharps  to  their  normal  pitch,  you 
see  me  at  work,  and  only  God  knows  what  I  feel.     Oh,  piano, 
witness  of  such  beautiful  gala  nights  of  which  nothing  remains 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.   32.  117 

for  me  to  see  except  their  following  gray,  cloudy  mornings,  I 
feel  that  you  are  one  I  can  confide  in.  I  have  never  known  hap- 
piness, wealth,  nor  beauty. 

[Turns  over  music  on  piano  and  finds  something  he 
can  play.] 

Ah !  Here  are  some  four-hand  pieces — lovers  can  play  such 
music.  He,  pressing  the  pedal,  covers  with  a  tremolo  his  pas- 
sionate whisper,  while  she  under  the  very  eyes  of  her  indulgent 
parents,  answers  with  little  runs  and  trills,  becomes  confused, 
blushes,  pales  again,  trembles,  and  gives  her  lover  a  tender  little 
pressure  of  the  foot  to  indicate  to  him  that  he  has  made  an  error 
in  his  playing. 

Here  are  some  waltzes — beautiful,  blonde  waltzes  flying  like 
swallows  here  and  there,  and  leaning  forward  lightly  in  the  arms 
of  their  partners !     Shall  I  not  banish  such  entrancing  visions  ? 

Oh,  compare  my  lonely  lot,  my  dark  nights,  with  these  gay 
evenings,   where   beautiful   eyes   flash   brighter  than   the   jewels 
which  sparkle  in  the  light  on  every  side ! 
[He  stops  and  thinks.'] 

Still,  I  am  happier  than  that  lover  of  my  wife's !     He  has  to 

look  at  her  ugly  face  morning  and  night  and  pretend  to  be  greatly 

in  love.     Only  we  who  are  husbands  can  be  sulky  and  avert  our 

eyes  from  the  faces  of  our  wives.    Lovers  must  be  ardent. 

[Turning  over  the  music] 

Here  are  accompaniments,  opera  music,  songs,  operettas  *  *  * 

[Searching  still  further  among  the  music.] 
Here  are  some  ends  of  dead  cigarettes. 
[Plays  a  scale  or  two.] 

I  do  not  smoke  cigarettes.  I  take  my  tobacco  in  the  good,  old 
way. 

[Pauses.] 

No!  I  never  cared  for  any  woman  except  my  wife.  She  was 
not  beautiful,    but    I    chose  her  for  her-  ugliness,  thinking,  like 


Ii8  WERNER'S  READINGS 

many  another  reasonable  man,  that  an  ugly  wife  would  be  faith- 
ful.   I  never  even  suspected  her. 

[Plays  minor  chords  in  a  depressing  manner.] 

I  thought,  poor  fool  that  I  was,  that  she  was  too  ugly  to  ever 
tempt  the  heart  of  a  lover. 

[Plays  another  scale.] 

Ah,  well,  ugliness,  it  seems,  does  not  frighten  love.  She  left 
me,  one  day,  heavily  veiled,  taking  away  with  her,  without  shame 
"or  remorse,  my  paper  collars,  my  glass  watch-chain,  my  two  new 
razors,  my  summer  shirts — in  fact,  all  of  my  wardrobe — all !  all ! 
all !  even  my  poor  old  tuning-fork.  She  sold  all  our  household 
furniture  to  defray  elopement  expenses,  and  now  I  am  obliged 
to  replace  my  tuning-fork  with  my  voice  when  I  am  at  work. 
[He  sings  a  broken,  false  note.] 
And  my  voice — how  feeble  it  is  now! 

[With  a  sigh.] 
Ah,  I  could  stand  it  better  if  only  my  wife  had  been  pretty! 

[He  begins  to  work.] 
I  am  too  base  at  heart !   I  am  ashamed  of  myself  to  have  any 
thought  or  care  for  that  ugly,  absent  wife  of  mine! 

[He  plays  loud  and  strikes  the  keys  hard.] 

I  do  not  care !  I  am  very  angry !  The  beast !  If  ever  I  catch 
her  I  will  beat  her ! 

[Bangs  harder  than  ever  on  the  piano.] 

I  feel  every  bad  instinct  growing  strong  within  me.  I  have 
behaved  like  a  lamb  long  enough — now  I  am  going  to  rage  like 
a  demon. 

[He  bangs  terribly  on  the  piano.] 

Stop!   Stop!   Stop! 

[Very  coolly.] 
I  have  broken  the  piano !  I  will  run  away ! 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.   32.  119 


MY  LOVER  WHO   LOVED   ME   LAST   SPRING. 


Romantic  Pathetic  Monologue  for  a  Girl. 


DOLLIE  DENTON. 


Written  Expressly  for  this  Book. 


Characters:  Prospective  Bride,  Speaker,  present;  her  friends. 

Scene:    Her  boudoir.     Prospective  Bride  in  dainty  negligee, 
reclines  on  couch. 

OH !  girls,  I  am  charmed  to  have  you ; 
So  sweet  of  you  to  come. 
You  know  mama  and  I  were  just  speaking  of  you, — 
Why,  Bess,  how  absurd ;  how  could  you  ever  be  de  trop  ? 
Yes,  indeed,  we  are  busy 
With  milliners  and  modistes.     And  then, 
We  sent  direct  to  Paris 
To  secure  the  services  of  Mme.  N., 

With  whom  I  practice  daily  my  court  bow — Ahem!         g 
[Laughs  and  botvs.] 

Countess  D'Valliere — there, 

Isn't  that  au  fait  to  the  Queen  ma  chere? 

Why,  certainly,  you  shall  see  my  trousseau — 

Please  ring,  Bessie  dear,  for  my  French  maid; 

That  is  one  more  necessary  affliction, 

So  the  Count  will  not  be  afraid  of  my  accent, 

Which  must  be  Parisian  strictly. 

Nannette,  apportez  mes  robes, 

Oui  cest  dans  cette  chambre — allons. 


I3>.  WERNER'S  READINGS, 

Yes,  she's  bright  enough, 
But  it  takes  me  so  long 
To  acquire  the  accent  Parisian, 
Sometimes  I  wish  I'd  never  been  born. 

My  gowns  are  from  Worth  and  Felix  and  {looking  around  as  if 
speaking  to  maid  who  enters  with  gozvns] 

Entre,  oui,  oui — ■ 

Mettez  sur  la  chaise — allons. 

Papa  has  given  me  carte  blanche  for  anything  under  heaven, 

Or  the  deep  blue  sea, — 

Yes,  Inez,  quite  right, 

One  does  not  become  a  countess 

Every  day  in  one's  life. 

[Motions  to  gowns  on  chair.] 
Bess,  that  lace  is  worth  a  fortune — 
Present  from  ma  mere  to  be;  » 

And  those  buckles  on  the  cheval  dresser 
Are  from  the  Duchess  D'Louis. 
Diamonds  of  the  first  water ; 
Aren't  they  pretty — see ! 
Oh !  Mother  dear,  do  let  me  chatter, 
For  after  another  short  day, 
I'll  be  a  titled  lady, 

And  must  say  "Amen"  to  "love,  honor  and  obey." 
Yes,  Be£§ ; 
Count  D'Valliere  is  slightly  ancient  and  rather  a  stern-looking 

man. 
But  consider  his  titles,  dearie, 

And  money,  and  lands;  _,■•     - 

Why,  his  estates  are  worth  millions. 
Last  season  at  Newport  the  way  the  girls  threw  themselves  at 

his  head,  '* 

Was  ridiculous;  of  course  to  the  Count  it  was  simply  sport. 
Have  you  seen  his  horses?  '       -  ■       ■- 

There  they  go!  ... 


AND  RECITATIONS   NO.   32.  121 

Aren't  they  beauties  ? 

Black  as  jet; 

There  has  never  been  a  pair  in  Memphis  tc  compare  with  them 

yet. 

The  girls  are  just  dying  with  envy — 

What's  that  ?  Hush  ! 

Ray,  do  not  talk  of  that  ring! 

Do  you  recognize  it,  Alida  ? 

It  was  given  me  by  Reginald  Hall, 

The  talented  young  artist 

Whom  we  met  at  the  Beach  House  last  Spring — 

Yes,  it  belonged  to  his  mother; 

You  remember  him,  dear, 

What  Ray?   He  is  killing  himself  drinking — 

Such  a  pity;  such  a  pity — [sighs  heavily]. 

Ah,  me,  did  I  start? 

Well,  dearie,  he  was  fascinating, 

But  poor  as  a  church  mouse, 

And  maybe  he  did  touch  my  heart  [laughs  nervously]. 

You're  going?   Oh!  dear,  I'm  so  sorry — 

Mother  is  in  the  library; 

She  will  lead  the  way. 

May  I  ask  you  to  excuse  me  ? 

How  I  wish  I  might  beg  you  to  stay, 

But  my  toilet  demands  my  attention  ; 

Count  D'Valliere  is  a  critic,  you  know. 

I  drive  with  him  at  seven, 

So — Au  revoir. 

*  #  *  *  *  w 

Thank  God !  they've  gone  and  left  me — 

What  a  miserable,  weak,  craven  thing — 

How  I  chatter  and  laugh,  day  in  and  day  out, 

Striving  to  forget  him. 

Ah !  Reginald,  my  King ! 

Your  fair  face  and  ambition 

Rise  before  me  like  a  ghost  of  the  past 


122  WERNER'S  READINGS     - 

That  flings  back  with  a  sneer  my  false  kisses  and  promises, 

That  were  not  made  to  last. 

Ah,  me !   Did  I  say  they  were  false 

Caresses  and  promises  I  gave 

When  he'd  bring,  in  all  life's  young  beauty, 

His  heart's  true  love? 

Then  I  lied — 

Nay,  they  were  not  false; 

To  him  only  have  I  given  the  true  thing. 

Ah !  Reginald,  how  well  I  remember 

When  you  first  spoke  of  the  hope  you  had; 

The  rain  was  dripping,  dripping 

With  a  musical  sound  so  sad. 

We  two  had  been  reading  "Lilith" — 

Reading  all  that  day. 

Suddenly  I  glanced  at  him — 

How  my  heart  thrilled. 

Well,  he  told  me  the  old  sweet  story, 

Maybe  in  the  same  old  way. 

With  his  strong  arms  around  me  clasped  closely, 

I  can  hear  him  e'en  now  as  he'd  say : 

"Darling,  I  love  you ;  I  love  you." 

It  may  be  the  same  old  thing, 

But  my  heart  quickens  now  • 

And  flutters  like  a  bird  that  has  broken  its  wing. 

I  have  ruined  his  life — 

God  forgive  me ! 

Why  can  I  not  blot  out  the  past? 

Why  must  I  be  cursed  with  a  love 

That  e'en  down  into  eternity  will  last? 

Other  women  love  and  forget — 

Why,  to  me,  must  it  be  the  real  thing? 

Ah,  Heaven  !  Count  D'Valliere's  voice ! 

I  must  don  the  masque. 

Pity  me,  oh  dear  God,  pity  me, 

And  pity  my  lover  who  loved  me  last  Spring-. 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.   32.  '     123 


TAKING   AN    ELEVATOR. 


Comedy  Yankee  Dialect  Monologue  for  a  Woman. 


Character:     Country  Woman. 

Costume  :    House  dress  of  a  countrywoman. 

Scene:    Country  sitting-room. 

[Enter  Countrywoman  and  talks  direct  to  audience.] 

I  HAD  heard  considerable  about  Mr.  Stewart's  big  store  in 
New  York,  but  I  wasn't  in  no  way  prepared  for  all  I  see 
there.  Sakes !  it  was  equal  to  a  dozen  villages  like  Vandusburg 
a-coming  out  o'  meetin'  all  to  once.  Such  a  crowd  I  never  see. 
And  the  women  maulin'  of  the  goods  without  buyin',  and  the 
clerks  lookin'  on  sarcastic,  just  the  like  you  see  in  any  ornery 
store.  Well,  I  went  about  better'n  an  hour,  gettin'  a  couple  o' 
pair  o'  good  domestic  hose  for  my  son  Jabez,  and  seven-eighths 
of  a  yard  of  stuff  for  cheese-bags,  and  finally,  bein'  uncommon 
tired,  I  felt  a  weak  spell  comin'  on,  and  I  hadn't  hardly  strength 
to  ask  for  chintz  for  the  sittin'-room  sofa. 

"Next  story,  ma'am,"  says  the  clerk,  kind  o'  lookin'  sharp  at 
me.     "Wouldn't  you  like  to  take  a  elevator  ?" 

Well,  I  was  beat.  It  seemed  a  most  uncommon  proceedin',  and 
what  I  never  heard  no  gentleman  do  before,  to  ask  me  to  take  a 
elevator.  I  had  my  misgivin's  what  it  meant,  for  our  Jabez,  with 
his  jokes,  and  what  nots,  though  father  and  me  is  most  strong 
temperince  folks,  presists  sometimes  in  takin'  what  he  calls  ele- 
vators, which  is  glasses  o'  speerits  and  water,  calkerlated,  as  he 
says,  to  raise  droopin'  feelin's  and  failin'  strength. 

"Sir,"  says  I  as  lofty  as  I  could,  "I  prefer  not,  and,  to  my  mind, 
you'd  do  better  for  a  respectable  shop  not  to  be  offerin'  elevators 
— leastwise  not  to  me." 

So  I  kept  walkin'  round,  not  likin'  to  ask  questions  showin'  my 


124  WERNER'S   READINGS 

country  ways,  and  still  feelin'  that  awful  feelin'  o'  goneness  which 
them  as  has  weak  spells  is  subject  to,  when  another  clerk,  hearin' 
me  ask  for  chintzes,  said  something  agin  about  takin'  a  elevator! 
By  this  time  I  felt  dreadful ;  and  so  says  I,  makin'  up  my  mind  it 
was  a  New  York  fashion,  and  it  wasn't  best  to  seem  too  back- 
country,  "Thanks  to  you,  sir,  I  don't  mind  tryin'  something  of  the 
kind,  bein'  most  remarkable  thirsty." 

"Certainty,  ma'am,"  says  he,  bowin'  careless  toward  a  stand 
holdin'  a  fancy  pail,  full  of  what  I  might  have  took  to  be  water, 
judgin'  by  the  taste,  but  I  know  well  enough  it  was  some  deceit- 
ful genteel  kind  of  liquor  with  the  taste  and  smell  took  out  of  it, 
as  they  do  to  benzine  and  castor  oil.  No  sooner  had  I  swallowed 
a  goblet  of  it,  than  a  young  man  pinted  to  a  little  room,  which,  if 
you'll  believe  me,  give  the  queerest  kind  of  jerk  you  ever  see  just 
as  I  looked  in.  But  seein'  comfortable  sofas  all  around  the  walls, 
I  steps  in,  and  sot  down.  There  was  other  ladies  goin*  in,  too, 
and  I  couldn't  help  wonderin'  whether  they  had  been  takin'  ele- 
vators like  me.  "It  won't  do  no  harm,"  said  I  to  myself,  "to  set 
here  a  minute  or  two,  till  this  dizzy  spell  passes  off" — when 
massy  on  me !  if  I  didn't  feel  myself  agoin'  up !  Yes,  agoin'  up  I 
And  with  me  the  room,  and  sofas,  and  ladies,  and  all!  I  clutched 
a  hold  of  the  cushions,  and  stared  kind  o'  wild,  like  as  not  for  one 
of  the  ladies  bit  her  lips  as  if  contemplating  to  laugh.  And  still 
we  was  all  a  goin'  up — leastwise  it  seemed  so  to  me.  "It's  all  on 
account  o'  taking'  that  elevator,"  thinks  I  to  myself.  And  then 
it  came  upon  me,  how  uncommon  appropriate  the  word  was, 
meanin'  a  drink.  But  I  couldn't  help  feelin'  scared,  particular 
when  I  see,  all  of  a  sudden,  men  and  women  kind  o'  walking 
about  in  the  air.  Once  I  jumped  up  to  go  out  of  the  room,  but 
a  man,  workin'  some  clock-works  in  the  corner;  held  out  his 
hand.  "In  one  moment,  madam !"  said  he,  a-pushin'  me  back 
with  such  an  air. 

"Did  you  take  a  elevator?"  I  whispered  to  the  lady  settin' 
along  side  of  me.  She  nodded  her  head  without  sayin'  nothing, 
and,  from  her  queer  look,  I  reckoned  she  was  worse  afflicted,  even 
than  I  was. 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.   32.  125 

"It's  the  first  one  I  ever  took  in  my  life,"  continued  I.  "Our 
country  elevators  is  more  positive  to  take,  but  they  don't  have 
nothin'  like  this  effect,  though  I  must  say  such  things  never 
oughter  to  be  took  except  in  sickness." 

"Now,  madam,"  says  the  clerk,  very  pompous,  "you'll  have  no 
difficulty  now."  Sure  enough,  I  didn't  have  no  difficulty.  For 
a  minute,  the  effect  of  the  elevator  passed  off  suddener  than  it 
came.  I  followed  the  ladies  out  lively  enough.  But,  sakes  alive ! 
what  a  time  I  had  findin'  the  street-door.  I  never  was  so  both- 
ered in  all  my  life ;  though  I  knowed  all  along  what  was  the  mat- 
ter. But  I  just  kept  on,  without  asking  no  questions,  a-goin', 
down  stairs,  and  down  stairs,  and  expectin'  nothin'  else  but  to 
find  myself  in  the  kitchen,  if  Mr.  Stewart's  family  lives  any- 
where in  the  buildin',  which  is  most  likely,  there  bein'  enough 
room,  I  should  think.  How  I  ever  got  out  of  that  store,  I  don't 
never  expect  to  know.  But  after  I  once  ketched  sight  of  them 
glass  doors  I  didn't  halt  till  I  stood  out  on  the  sidewalk,  ex- 
plainin'  private  to  a  police  that  I  had  been  takin'  elevators,  and 
wouldn't  he  put  me  into  a  down-town  stage. 

To  this  day  I  haven't  said  a  word  about  the  business  to  Jabez, 
nor  husband,  nor  no  one  to  home.  Some  things  had  best  be  by- 
gones. But  I  feel  it  a  boundin'  duty  to  warn  respectable  females, 
great  and  small,  not  to  be  led  into  takin'  elevators  when  they  go 
into  them  York  stores.  Least  of  all,  this  new-fangled  kind,  which 
is  equally  fatal  in  consequences  to  pure  spirits,  but  tastes  like 
nothin'  on  earth  but  water,  which  leads  you  to  takin'  too  much. 


I'M   LITTLE,  BUT   I'M   SPUNKY. 

15  M  little,  but  I'm  spunky,  too, 
I'll  tell  you  all  what  I  can  do ; 
I've  got  a  top  that  spins ;  and  I 
Can  make  a  kite  go  to  the  sky. 
Bill  Smith  says  he  has  got  one,  too ; 
I  don't  believe  he  says  what's  true, 
And  I  can  tell  you  just  the  sign — 
'Cause  Bill — he  always  borrows  mine! 


126  WERNER'S  READINGS: 

AFTER  THE  BALL:  HER  REFLECTIONS. 


Comedy  Musical  Monologue  for  a  Woman. 


MEL  B.  SP.URR. 


Character  :     Miss  Flossie  Fluffytop,  Speaker,  present. 
Time  :    High  noon  the  day  after  the  ball. 

Scene  :    A  boudoir.    On  a  stand  are  a  bottle  of  salts  and  several 
jars  of  scents.     Piano  at  one  side  of  room. 

[Miss  Flossie  is  seated  near  table  zvrapped  in  a  shawl  and 
looking  somewhat  fagged  as  she  gases  at  her  program.] 

OH,  dear,  dear !  How  fatigued  I  do  feel,  to  be  sure.  I  seem, 
'positively,  to  ache  in  every  limb.  It  does  seem  a  shame 
that  one  can't  have  a  little  innocent  amusement  overnight  with- 
out having  to  suffer  so  terribly  for  it  next  day.  I  have  just  had 
an  interview  with  Dr.  Blunt,  our  family  physician,  but  he  really 
is  such  an  outspoken,  unsympathetic  old — brute,  that  I  feel  very 
little,  if  any,  better  for  his  visit.  He  asked  me  if  my  head  ached ! 
I  told  him  that  it  simply  felt  as  if  it  would  split!  Then  he  asked 
me  what  else  I  could  expect,  after  twirling  round  for  several 
hours  like  a  tee-totum,  in  a  room  as  hot  as  an  oven.  I  told  him 
that  I  was  not  a  tee-totum,  and  I  didn't  know  anything  about 
ovens.  Then  he  said  I  was  probably  suffering  from  indigestion, 
and  he  asked  me  what  I'd  had  to  eat  at  the  ball  ?  Rude,  inquisitive 
people  doctors  are,  to  be  sure!  I  told  him  I  couldn't  remember. 
He  said  I  must.  I  said  I  couldn't — it  was  impossible!  He  said, 
"Was  it  such  a  lot?"  I  said,  No,  it  was  not  such  a  lot,  but  I 
couldn't  possibly  remember  all  I  ate  at  a  ball.  He  insisted,  so  I 
told  him  that,  as  well  as  I  could  recollect,  I'd  had  a  little  clear 
soup,  and  just  a  picking  of  cod  and  oyster  sauce,  and  some  joint, 
and  an  entree  or  two,  and  some  sweets,  and  a  few  ices,  and  per- 
haps two  or  three  oranges  and  an  apple  and  some  grapes — noth- 

Note.— "After  the  Ball:  Her  Reflections"  and  "After  the  Ball:  His  Re- 
flections" are  companion  monologues  which  may  be  recited  at  same  enter- 
tainment, either  by  one  person  or  by  two  persons,  woman  and  man,  one 
following  the  other. 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  32.  127 

ing  at  all  out  of  the  way,  you  know — for  a  ball!  You  should  have 
seen  the  way  he  glared  at  me,  as  he  informed  me  that  such  a  mix- 
ture as  that  was  enough  to  destroy  the  digestion  of  an  elephant. 
Yes,  an  elephant — male  or  female !  The  idea  of  comparing  me  to 
an  elephant ! — disgusting!  Yes,  and  then  he  finished  up  by 
recommending  me  to  take  a  good,  smart,  two  hours'  walk  in  the 
country.  The  idea !  A  morning  like  this !  He  knows  that  the  morn- 
ing air  would  make  my  eyes  and  nose  sore  and  red,  but  what  does 
he  care  about  that?   Nothing!  The  old  hedgehog! — /  hate  him. 

But  it  was  a  delightful  ball,  after  all !  There  was  such  a  lot  of 
nice  fellows  there,  and  good  dancers — some  of  them.  I  danced 
every  dance,  of  course.  I  always  do.  If  I  don't,  I  fill  in  the 
blanks  when  I  get  home.    You  can  always  do  that,  can't  you  ? 

[Looks  at  program.]  I  wonder  if  I  can  remember  any  of  my 
partners?  [Reads.]  "Charlie  Honeyford."  Ah,  I  remember 
Charlie !  Oh,  he  is.  nice !  [If  the  performer  is  a  pianist,  she 
should  here  turn  round  to  the  piano,  and  softly  accompany  the 
words  with  suitable  music.  This,  of  course,  should  be  kept  up  to 
the  end  of  the  monologue.  Here  a  ivaltz  should  be  played.]  And 
so  handsome,  too.  Such  lovely  golden  hair  and  moustache,  but 
very  little  gold  anywhere  else,  unfortunately.  It  is  a  pity,  because 
he's  so  good-looking.     And  he  dances  delightfully. 

[Reads  prograih.]  "Captain  Claude  Crawler."  [Plays  first 
figure  of  lancers,  softly.]  Yes,  that  was  fun!  We  danced  the 
lancers,  and  he  didn't  know  the  figures.  He  had  to  be  pulled 
through.  Oh,  have  you  ever  had  to  pull  anybody  through  the 
lancers  ?  Isn't  it  awful !  You  should  have  seen  Captain  Claude 
Crawler  after  he'd  been  clawed  through.  He  was  all  dank  and 
dripping,  as  if  he'd  just  come  up  from  under  water.  [Giggles.] 
It's  a  shame  to  laugh  at  him,  but  he  was  too  absurd.  [Giggles; 
reads  program.]  "Benjamin  Briefless."  He  was  a  barrister. 
Well,  I'll  give  him  his  due.  He  could  talk.  I  never  heard  a 
woman  talk  like  him — not  even  at  a  mothers'  meeting!  But  he 
couldn't  dance  a  little  bit.  His  was  the  hop-skip-jump  style  of 
thing.  He  said  "he  couldn't  slide,  he  could  only  hop."  And  he 
did  hop,  too.    On  to  my  corns  sometimes.    We  danced  the  High- 


128  WERNER'S  READINGS. 

land  schottische,  and  we  separated  as  usual  during  the  first  part, 
you  know.  And  before  I  knew  where  he  was,  he  was  jigging 
away  at  the  other  end  of  the  room  with  a  creature  in  green !  He 
said  he  was  short-sighted,  and  didn't  know  the  difference.  I 
thought  he  was  very  rude.  It  was  simply  adding  insult  to  injury, 
wasn't  it? 

[Reads  program.']  "Maurice  Moonshine."  [Plays  mazourka.] 
He  was  a  poet ;  a  real  poet.  He  had  lovely  unkempt  hair.  I  don't 
exactly  know  what  unkempt  hair  is,  but  I  think  it  must  mean  un- 
cut,  and  then  such  eyes! — like  gimlets!  Badly-fitting  clothes, 
too ;  all  complete — a  perfect  poet.  He  asked  me  in  a  sort  of  "cold- 
drawn  castor  oil-"  y  voice  if  he  "might  have  the  pleasure  of  a 
dance  with  me?"  Fearing  that  he  might  come  to  some  harm  if 
I  didn't  give  him  one,  I  gave  him  a  mazourka,  and  at  the  proper 
time  he  came  for  it.  The  dictionary  says  that  a  mazourka  is  "a 
sentimental  sort  of  dance."  Mr.  Moonshine  evidently  felt  it  to 
be  so,  for  he  rolled  his  eyes  up  to  the  ceiling,  clasped  my  hand 
with  feverish  eagerness,  and  sighed  so  dismally  and  so  often  that 
I  really  was  afraid  he  was  not  very  well.  I  said  to  him,  "Are  you 
not  well?"  He  said,  "Well?  I  am  enraptured!"  [Dismally.]  I 
said,  "Is  that  the  way  you  look  when  you  are  enraptured?  You 
don't  look  over  festive."  What  do  you  think  he  said  ?  "  Tis  but 
a  worldly  heart  that  is  worn  upon  the  sleeve."'  I  said,  "Oh,  that's 
very  pretty,  indeed !  Is  that  Tennyson  or  Shakespeare,  Mr. 
Moonshine?"  He  said,  "It  is  neither.  It  is  Moonshine.  All 
Moonshine !"  I  was  very  glad  when  that  dance  was  over.  It 
made  me  feel  quite  uncomfortable. 

[Reads  program.]  "Harold  Horty."  Oh,  yes!  I  remember 
Mr.  Horty.  He  was  one  of  the  golden  youth  of  the  day.  Plenty 
of  money,  you  know,  but  very  little  brain.  His  conversation  was 
not  brilliant,  by  any  means,  and  was  restricted,  almost  entirely, 
to  that  highly  epigrammatic  expression,  "  D  on'  t-you-knozvf"  He 
came  up  to  me  languidly,  and  said,  "I  hope  you've  kept  a  dance 
for  me,  Miss  Fluffytop,  don't-you-know  ?"  So  I  gave  him  a 
galop.  Oh,  and  it  zvas  a  galop!  A  donkey's  galop,  as  far  as  he 
was  concerned,  don't-you-know !      [Plays    galop    softly.  ]      We 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.  32.  129 

bumped  against  everybody,  in  turn.  And  every  time  we  bumped 
he  would  say,  "Shocking  lot  of  dancers  they  are  here,  to-night. 
Aren't  they?"  And  I  said,  looking  full  at  him,  "Yes,  some  of 
them  are."  He  didn't  see  it.  He  went  on,  "just  in  the  old  sweet 
way."  And,  if  you  please,  he  seemed  to  think  it  was  all  my  fault. 
Oh ! — I  think  I  never  was  so  mortified  in  my  life.  But  I  had  my 
revenge.  Oh,  dear,  yes  !  I  saw  he  was  getting  very  tired.  (These 
sort  of  men  are  very  soon  done  up.)  So  I  wouldn't  let  him  stop. 
He  said,  "I  hope  I'm  not  tiring  you,  Miss  Flufrytop,  don't-you- 
know?"  I  said,  "Oh,  no!  Not  at  all,  thank  you!"  and  on  we 
went,  faster  than  ever.  Then  he  gasped  out — "It's  getting  rather 
warm,  don't  you  think?"  I  said,  "Not  at  all!"  and  on  we  went 
again.  At  last  he  was  obliged  to  give  in.  He  said  [puffing] ,  "If 
you  don't  mind,  we'll  stop  now,  don't-you-know !"  Poor  fellow ! 
He  was  done  up,  if  you  like.  He  had  to  have  a  brandy  and  soda, 
"to  bring  him  round  again,  don't-you-knozv! /" 

[Reads  program.]  "Percy  Powell."  [s/^/zs]  Ah! — Percy  is 
a  perfect  darling,  "don't-you-know !"  He  waltzes  divinely. 
[Plays  waltz.]  And  he  talks  so  nicely  to  you,  too,  while  dancing. 
None  of  your  stupid,  inane,  vapid  conversation  like  Mr.  Horty's ! 
— Oh,  dear,  no !  His  is  what  I  call  real,  intellectual  talk.  This 
is  the  way  Percy  talks  to  you  while  dancing.  "Awful  lot  of  peo- 
ple here  to-night."  [Looks  up  and  smiles,  as  if  assenting  to  the 
remark.  N.B. — This  business  is  kept  up  all  through  the  ensuing 
remarks  of  Percy.]  "Very  warm!" — "Been  to  many  kick-ups 
this  season?" — "Going  to  the  Thompsons'  next  week?" — "Ah,  so 
am  I.  I  shall  see  you  there.  Thanks  awfully  for  this  dance. 
[yawns.]  Goo'-ni'."  That's  the  way  Percy  talks  to  you.  Isn't 
it  nice?  That  was  the  last  dance  I  had,  and  then  I  had  to  come 
away.  [The  following  parody  could  be  used  as  a  finish.] 

(Air.— "After  the  Opera  is  Over.") 
I'm  sorry  the  dancing  is  over, 

So  sorry  the  dancing  is  done. 
For  supping,  and  flirting,  and  dancing, 
I  think  is  the  greatest  of  fun ! 

[Skips  about  stage  and  exits.] 


130  WERNER'S  READINGS 


AFTER  THE  BALL:  HIS  REFLECTIONS. 


Comedy  Musical  Monologue  for  a  Man. 


MEL  B.  SPURR. 


Character  :     Mr.  Harold  Horty,  Speaker,  present,  addresses 
his  conversation  to  audience. 

Time  :    High  noon  day  after  the  ball. 

Scene  :     A  den.     Table,  chairs,  etc.     On  table  are  brandy  and 
soda. 

[Mr.  Horty  drains  a  glass,  sets  it  on  table,  shakes  himself 
together,  yawns,  and  then  exclaims:] 

BY  Jove !  These  balls  do  knock  one  over  and  no  mistake. 
Make  one  feel  kind  of  knocked-down-and-not-worth-pick- 
ing-up-again,  don't-you-know !  My  head  feels  as  if  I'd  been 
dancing  wrong  end  up,  and  I've  got  a  red  mark  round  my  neck, 
as  if  I'-d  been  trying  to  saw  my  head  off.  My  man  tells  me  that 
that  is  caused  by  my  insisting  on  going  to  bed  with  my  collar  on. 
Somehow,  do  you  know,  I  don't  remember  going  to  bed  at  all ! 
I  don't  know  why  I  shouldn't,  but  I  don't.  I  know  I  feel  deuced 
seedy.  I've  had  a  good  wash — that  pulls  a  fellow  together ;  I  feel 
as  if  I  wanted  starch-and-ironing  as  well.  Awfully  jolly  ball  that 
was  last  night.     Some  tidy  little  girls  there,  don't-you-know. 

Let  me  see  if  I  can  remember  any  of  my  partners.  [Looks  at 
program.]  By  Jove!  Is  this  my  writing?  It  looks  like  forked 
lightning  more  than  anything  else.  Must  have  been  worse  than 
I  thought.  Now  let  me  see  [reads].  "Kate  Jesmond  Deane." 
Ah  !  A  delightful  little  creature,  with — what-you-may-call-'em — 
sapphire  blue  eyes  and  lovely  chestnut  hair — sort  of  roast-chest- 

Note.— "After  the  Ball :  His  Reflections"  and  "After  the  Ball :  Her  Re- 
flections" are  companion  monologues  which  may  be  recited  at  same  enter- 
tainment, either  by  one  person  or  by  two  persons,  woman  and  man,  one 
following  the  other. 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.   32.  131 

nut  hair,  don't-you-know !  And  such  a  sweet  smile.  It's  a  smile 
that  goes  very  well  with  mine.  You  know,  some  girls  seem  to  be 
afraid  of  their  partners,  don't  they?  But  not  Kitty.  She  nestles 
up  against  a  fellow's  waistcoat  like  a  bee-yu-tious  bee  in  a  balmy 
butter-cup,  don't-you-know!  [Reads.]  I  notice  I  danced  an 
awful  lot  with  her. 

"Waltz,  Miss  Jesmond  Deane."  "Lancers,  Kate."  (Told  me  her 
name  was  Kate.)  "Polka,  Kitty."  (Getting  on!)  "Quadrille, 
darling  Kitty."  "Waltz,  My  own  Kitty- Witty."  Ah !  That  was 
after  the  champagne. 

[Reads.]  "Miss  Belinda  Bluesox."  I  remember  her.  A 
strong-minded  party.  Tall,  thin  and  jointy — not  jaunty,  don't- 
you-know? — jointy.  Hostess  told  me  she  was  a  Master  of  Arts, 
or  something  terrible.  We  had  a  set  of  quadrilles  together. 
Fancy  going  through  a  set  of  quadrilles  in  this  petrified  mummy 
sort  of  style.  [Goes  through  part  of  first  figure  of  quadrille,  zvith 
arms  folded  stiffly.]  Then,  when  we  were  setting  to  partners,  I 
was  going  to  take  her  by  the  waist,  as  usual.  Not  a  bit  of  it !  She 
put  out  a  skinny  hand  instead.  [Imitates,  turning  round,  hand 
held  aloft.]  Then  her  conversation.  She  asked  me  if  I  was  fond 
of  literature.  I  said,  "Oh,  yes — some.  I  take  the  'Sporting 
Times'  regularly."  She  said,  "What  books  did  I  like  best?"  I 
said  "Those  that  have  pictures  in  them,  don't-you-know?"  She 
said,  "Didn't  I  study  any  of  the  arts  or  sciences?"  I  said  "I  did 
a  little  in  the  art  of  self-defence."  I  thought  she  would  have  to 
be  taken  home  on  a  shutter.     She  was  a  terror,  I  tell  you. 

[Reads.]  "Flossie  Fluff ytop."  'M-yes  !  She  was  recommended 
to  me  as  a  girl  with  plenty  of  "go"  in  her.  By  Jove!  "Go!" — 
vShe  had  that  with  a  vengeance.  I  have  often  wondered  what  was 
meant  by  "perpetual  motion."  I  think  it  must  be  a  galop  with 
Miss  Flossie  Fluffy  top.  We  went  twirling  and  twisting  round 
like  a  couple-  of  dervishes  !  Ah  !  and  talking  about  twists, — what 
a  twist  that  girl  had  on  her  at  supper.  I'd  rather  keep  her  a  week 
than  a  fortnight,  any  time. 

[Reads.]  "Maggie  MacTaggart."  Ou !  Aye!  A  great,  raw- 
boned  Heeland — toe-and-heehnd — lassie,  ye  ken,  don't-you-know. 


,i32  ,         WERNER'S  READINGS 

Hech!  The  dauchter  o'  a  "braw  laird,"  whatever  kind  of  cattle 
that  may  be.  We  had  a  real — I  was  going  to  say  reel — Highland 
Schottische  together.  We  did  it  in  the  native  style — war-whoop 
and  all,  complete.  [Dances  the  Highland  schottische,  emitting 
loud,  stentorian  "hechs"  every  now  and  then.  Finishes  up  in  an 
exhausted  state,  and  fans  face  with  handkerchief.]  After  about 
ten  minutes  of  this  sort  of  thing,  I  was  beginning  to  feel  a  bit 
done  up,  don't-you-know.  Miss  Maggie  MacTaggart  looked  as 
if  she  hadn't  turned  a  hair,  so  to  speak.  I  gasped  out,  "It's  a  fine 
dance,  the  Heeland  Schottische,  ye  ken,  don't-you-know.  Hech!" 
She  said,  "Aye,  it's  no  that  bad !  But  your  dances  here  are  naeth- 
ing  but  puir  creepin'  and  crawlin'.  Ye  pay  mair  attention  to  yer 
parrtners  than  to  they  dances."  "Weel,"  I  said,  in  my  best 
Jamieson,  "and  it's  a  vary  guid  fault,  for  a'  thot, — Hech!"  She 
said,  "Maybe  aye,  maybe  no !  It's  ilka  mair  a  canny  gilly  gaskin, 
Skirrach !"  I  said  I  thocht  so  mysel',  but  I  couldna'  express  it 
sae  elegantly.  She  sniffed  again,  and  said,  "Happen  we'd  better 
gae  at  it  again."  So  we  "gaed"  at  it  again,  and  after  that  I  went 
hame,  ye  ken,  saying,  "Hech,  hech,  hech !"  all  the  way ;  and,  now 
I  come  to  think  of  it,  I  rather  fancy  it's  that  that's  given  me  such 
a  hea.d-hech  this  morning,  ye  ken,  don't-you-know!!!     HECH! 


WHEN   GREEK   MEETS   GREEK. 


Humorous  Yankee  Dialect  Verse  Monologue  for   a  Man. 


O  TRANGER  here?    Yes,  come  from  Varmount, 
v-^       Rutland  county.     You'e  hern  tell 
Mebbe  of  the  town  of  Granville? 

You  born  there?    No!  sho!   Well,  well! 
You  was  born  at  Granville,  was  you? 

Then  you  know  Elisha  Brown, 
Him  as  runs  the  old  meat  market 

At  the  lower  end  of  town ! 
Well !  Well !  Well !   Born  down  in  Granville ! 

And  out  here,  so  far  away! 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.  32.  133 

Stranger,  I'm  homesick  already, 

Though  it's  but  a  week  to-day 
Since  I  left  my  good  wife  standin' 

Out  there  at  the  kitchen  door, 
Sayin'  she'd  ask  God  to  keep  me ; 

And  her  eyes  were  runnin'  o'er ! 
You  must  know  ole  Albert  Withers, 

Henry  Bell  and  Ambrose  Cole? 
Know  them  all?    And  born  in  Granville ! 

Well!  Well!  Well !    Why,  bless  my  soul! 
Sho !    You're  not  old  Isaac's  nephew, — 

Isaac  Green,  down  on  the  flat ! 
Isaac's  oldest  nephew, — Henry? 

Well,  I'd  never  thought  of  that! 
Have  I  got  a  hundred  dollars 

I  could  loan  you  for  a  minute, 
Till  yon  buy  a  horse  at  Marcy'sf 

There's  my  wallet !   Just  that  in  it ! 
Hold  on,  though !    You  have  ten,  mebbe, 

You  could  let  me  keep ;  you  see 
I  might  chance  to  need  a  little 

Betwixt  now  and  half-past  three ! 
Ten.     That's  it;  you'll  owe  me  ninety; 

Bring  it  round  to  the  hotel. 
So  you're  old  friend  Isaac's  nephew? 

Born  in  Granville  !    Sho  !    Well,  well ! 


What !    policeman,  did  you  call  me  ? 

That  a  rascal  going  there? 
Well,  sir ;  do  you  know  I  thought  so, 

And  I  played  him  pretty  fair; 
Hundred-dollar  bill  I  gave  him — 

Counterfeit — and  got  this  ten ! 
Ten  ahead.    No  !   you  don't  tell  me, 

This  bad,  too?    Sho!    Sold  again! 


134  WERNER'S  READINGS 

i 

AN    INTRODUCTION. 


Romantic  Comedy  Monologue  for  a  Woman. 
ANNA  WARREN  STORY. 


[Enter  Widow  laughing  heartily.] 

HA !  ha !  ha !  ha !  Oh  !  I  beg  a  thousand  pardons — ha !  ha ! 
ha !  ha !  I  cannot  help  it.  I  must  laugh  or  I  shall  die — 
ha !  ha !  ha !  ha  !  Now,  imagine  !  I  am  a  widow  !  Oh,  no !  that's 
not  the  reason  I  laugh.    No,  no ;  it  is  much  more  droll  than  that. 

One  of  my  good  lady  friends  wishes  me  to  marry  again,  and 
to  bring  this  about  has  selected  a  number  of  gentlemen  whom  she 
thinks  suitable  for  a  future  husband  for  me;  and  she  arranged  a 
meeting  this  evening  for  one  of  these  gentlemen  and  me — ha !  ha ! 
ha!  ha! 

It  was  at  the  opera.  "Faust!"  "Faust!" — poetical  and 
preparatory. 

I  arrived  with  my  friend  before  my  "Future"  should  come,  in 
order  to  judge  of  his  entrance. 

The  door  opens.  He  enters.  Ha !  ha !  ha !  ha !  I  laugh.  It  is 
not  my  fault.    It  was  so  funny. 

Picture  this  to  yourself.  The  evening  was  very  cold,  and  the 
air  had  given  to  this  (ha!  ha!  ha!  ha!)  "Chosen  One"  among 
the  eligibles  a  severe  cold.  He  had  wound  a  scarf  several  times 
around  his  head  and  had  forgotten  to  take  it  off — ha !  ha !  ha !  ha ! 
He  looked  as  if  he  were  a  fortification  in  cashmere ;  and  his  small 
tip  of  a  red  nose  seemed  like  a  lighthouse. 

We  are  introduced  to  each  other. 

"Madame"  [imitating  the  salutation  of  the  gentleman], 

"Monsieur"  [making  a  courtesy]. 

"Madame"  [same  as  before]. 

"Monsieur"  [same  as  before]. 

Then  came  a  long  silence — oh,  a  long  silence.  I  say  to  myself, 
"He  is  looking  at  me ;  he  is  fascinated." 

"Beautiful  hall,"  he  says  to  me. 

"Very  beautiful." 

"Beautiful  music." 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.  $2.  135 

"Oh  !  ah !    Perfectly  lovely." 

"Fine  execution." 

"Yes,  yes." 

In  fact,  everything-  was  beautiful,  except  himself. 

The  act  being  fimshed,  he  went  out  to  search  for  the  compli- 
ments he  had  not  paid  me,  and  in  leaving  the  box  he  dropped  his 
glasses ;  for,  besides  having  a  cold,  he  was  near-sighted.  I  said 
nothing,  but  pushed  the  poor  man's  glasses  under  the  chair.  He 
did  not  return  to  look  for  them,  not  daring  to  let  me  know  that 
he  could  not  see  well. 

"Well,  my  dear,"  said  my  friend,  "how  do  you  like  him  ?" 

"Really,  up  to  the  present  moment  I  only  find  he  has  a  severe 
cold." 

"But,  that  will  not  last.    Wait — we  shall  see  him  again." 

In  speaking  we  had  made  a  little  turn  in  the  box.  The  orches- 
tra began  the  overture  to  the  second  act.  We  seated  ourselves, 
and,  without  thinking,  my  friend  took  my  place  and  I  took  hers. 

The  door  re-opened  (ha!  ha!  ha!  ha!)  Monsieur  re-entered, 
and, seating  himself  behind  me  and  leaning  toward  my  ears  he  said  : 

"Thanks,  my  dear  friend,  thanks.  She  is  frightful.  She  is 
too  dark.  She  is  too  large.  I  will  have  none  of  her.  Thank  you 
(ha!  ha!  ha!  ha!).  Besides,  she  is  stupid;  indeed,  she  is.  She 
has  found  nothing  to  say  to  me,  and  I  have  taken  up  every  sort 
of  subject.    Find  me  another,  but  not  this  lady." 

Ha !  ha !  ha !  ha !  He  had  not  recognized  me.  We  were  both 
dressed  in  black ;  he  had  mistaken  me  for  my  friend,  and  had 
given  me  my  panegyric  (ha!  ha!  ha!  ha!).  A  burst  of  laughter 
made  him  comprehend  his  mistake,  my  voice  serving  him  as  a 
glass. 

"Oh !  Madame !  Many  excuses !  Many  pardons — many 
— many " 

The  emotion  gave  him  extra  cold  and  he  began  to  sneeze  and 
sneeze  and  sneeze,  and  I — I  laughed  and  laughed  and  laughed  to 
such  an  extent  that  I  finally  escaped  that  I  might  come  and  laugh 
with  you,  for  I  am  sure  he  will  go  on  sneezing  forever. 

I  shall  remain  a  widow. 


136  WERNER'S  READINGS 

WHEN   PAPA'S    SICK. 


Comedy  Verse  Recital  for  a  Boy. 


JOE  LINCOLN. 


WHEN  papa's  sick,  my  goodness  sakes! 
Such  awful,  awful  times  it  makes. 
He  speaks  in,  oh !  such  lonesome  tones, 
And  gives  such  ghastly  kind  of  groans, 
And  rolls  his  eyes  and  holds  his  head, 
And  makes  ma  help  him  up  to  bed, 
While  Sis  and  Bridget  run  to  heat 
Hot-water  bags  to  warm  his  feet, 
And  I  must  get  the  doctor,  quick, — 
We  have  to  jump  when  papa's  sick. 

When  papa's  sick,  ma  has  to  stand 
Right  'side  the  bed  and  hold  his  hand, 
While  Sis,  she  has  to  fan  an'  fan, 
For  he  says  he's  "a  dyin'  man," 
And  wants  the  children  round  him  to 
Be  there  when  "sufferin'  pa  gets  through;" 
He  says  he  wants  to  say  good-bye 
And  kiss  us  all,  and  then  he'll  die; 
Then  moans  and  says  his  "breathin's  thicks- 
It's  awful  sad  when  papa's  sick. 

When  papa's  sick  he  acts  that  way 
Until  he  hears  the  doctor  say, 
"You've  only  got  a  cold,  you  know; 
You'll  be  all  right  'n  a  day  or  so;" 
And  then — well,  say — you  ought  to  see — 
He's  different  as  he  can  be, 
And  growls  and  swears  from  noon  to  night 
Just  'cause  his  dinner  am'4-  cooked  right; 
And  all  he  does  is  fuss  and  kick, — 
We're  all  used  up  when  papa's  sick. 


AND   RECITATIONS   NO.  32.  137 


WHEN   PA   GETS   SICK. 


Comedy  Verse  Recital  for  a  Boy. 


WHEN  pa  gets  sick  he  always  knows 
He's  go'n  ter  die,  an'  Tommy  goes 
For  Doctor  Quack,  an'  'fore  he  'rives 
I'm  hurried  off  for  Doctor  Ives, 
An'  ma  an'  Bess  an'  auntie,  too, 
For  liniments  an'  gruels  go, 
An'  plasters  an'  the  warmin'  brick 
An'  everything, — when  pa  gets  sick. 

No  one  of  us  is  'lowed  to  play, 
The  baby's  sent  across  the  way, 
The  'pothecary's  boy's  about, 
The  hull  time  runnin'  in  an'  out. 
The  house  so  with  his  groans  is  filled, 
Folks  stop  to  ask  who's  gettin'  killed, 
An'  misery  is  piled  on  thick 
For  everyone, — when  pa  gets  sick. 

We  never  have  no  table  set ; 
Cold  vittles  is  the  best  we  get, 
For  cook  is  busy  to  the  brim 
Contrivin'  dainty  things  for  him; 
An*  studyin'  it  in  my  mind 
I'm  good  deal  more'n  half  inclined 
To  think — although  I  dassent  kick — 
We  suffer  most  when  pa  gets  sick. 


U8  WERNER'S  READINGS 


IF  I  CAN   BE  BY  HER. 


Romantic  Stammering  Dialect  Verse  Monologue. 


BEN  KING. 


ID-D-DON'T  c-c-c-are  how  the  r-r-r-obin  sings, 
Er  how  the  r-r-r-ooster  f-f-flaps  his  wings, 
Er  whether  't  sh-sh-shines,  er  whether  't  pours, 
Er  how  high  up  the  eagle  s-s-soars, 
It  I  can  b-b-b-be  by  her. 

I  don't  care  if  the  p-p-p-people  s-say 
'At  I'm  weak-minded  every-w-way, 
An'  n-n-never  had  no  cuh-common  sense, 
I'd  c-c-c-cuh-climb  the  highest  p-picket  fence 
If  I  could  b-b-b-be  by  her. 

If  I  can  be  by  h-h-her,  I'll  s-s-swim 
The  r-r-r-est  of  life  thro'  th-th-thick  an'  thin ; 
I'll  throw  my  overcoat  away, 
An'  s-s-s-stand  out  on  the  c-c-c-oldest  day, 
If  I  can  b-b-b-be  by  her. 

You  s-s-see  sh-sh-she  weighs  an  awful  pile, 
B-b-b-but  I  d-d-d-don't  care — sh-she's  just  my  style, 
An'  any  f-f-fool  could  p-p-p-lainly  see 
She'd  look  well  b-b-b-by  the  side  of  me, 
If  I  could  b-b-b-be  by  her. 

I  b-b-b-braced  right  up,  and  had  the  s-s-s-and 
To  ask  'er  f-f-f-father  f-f-fer  'er  hand ; 
He  said:  "Wh-wh-what  p-p-prospects  have  you  got?" 
I  said :   "I  gu-gu-guess  I've  got  a  lot, 
If  I  can  b-b-b-be  by  her." 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.  32.  139 

AT   THE   BOX-OFFICE. 


Comedy  Monologue  for  a  Young  Lady. 


ELSIE  LIVERMORE. 


Characters  :  Alice,  Speaker,  present ;  Margaret,  an  ac- 
quaintance, several  men  all  supposed  to  be  present. 

Scene  :  Alice  is  standing  in  line  looking  in  at  window ;  turning 
suddenly,  she  discovers  an  acquaintance  near  stage  front  R. 

HELLO,  Margaret !  Yes,  dear,  I  have  been  standing  in  line 
the  longest  time,  perfect  ages.  I'm  just  about  dead.  Such 
a  string  of  stupid  men  have  been  ahead  of  me,  and  they  have  all 
been  so  long  making  up  their  minds.  I  should  think  they  would 
decide  what  they  wanted  before  they  came,  wouldn't  you?  I 
always  do. 

Are  you  after  tickets,  too  ?  That's  nice.  I  love  company.  Now, 
dear,  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do.  I'll  let  you  stand  right  here  behind 
me  and  then  you  won't  have  to  go  away  down  the  line. 

[To  a  man  in  the  rear:]  What,  sir?  Well,  I'll  have  you  under- 
stand, sir,  this  lady  is  a  friend  of  mine,  and  I  have  a  perfect  right 
to  allow  her  to  stand  beside  me  if  I  wish !  The  idea,  Margaret ; 
that  man  objects  to  your  standing  here ! 

It's  awful  waiting,  isn't  it?  I  wouldn't  do  it  for  anyone  but 
Hackett,  but  I  simply  adore  him.  What  do  you  think  of  my  new 
hat,  dear?  Rather  "swell,"  I  think.  I  bought  it  at  "Maguirett's." 
'Her  prices  are  something  atrocious.  Why,  my  dear,  will  you  be- 
lieve me,  she  wanted  twenty-five  dollars  for  an  ordinary  walking- 
hat  with  nothing  on  it  but  a  rosette  ?  Of  course,  it  had  style,  but 
when  I  pay  that  amount  for  style  I  want  it  to  consist  of  something 
more  than  a  bow  of  ribbon. 

Did  you  go  to  the  whist  yesterday?  What  did  Maude  wear? 
The  one  trimmed  with  pink?  Mercy,  she's  worn  that  since  the 
year  One.  Have  anything  good  to  eat  ?  Is  that  all  ?  Well,  thank 
goodness !  I  didn't  go.  You  always  get  lobster  salad  at  whists, 
just  as  you  get  chops  and  green  peas  at  luncheons. 


140  ■  WERNER'S   READINGS 

Awfully  uninteresting  set  of  people  here  this  morning,  espe- 
cially the  men.  Just  look  at  this  man  ahead  of  me.  I  hate  that 
type  of  person,  don't  you  ?  So  insignificant !  Think  he  must  be 
buying  up  the  whole  house,  he's  certainly  been  there  long  enough. 
Anyway,  I  come  next.    There,  he's  through  at  last. 

[To  the  ticket  seller:']  Two  seats,  please.  Oh,  Saturday,  yes, 
matinee.  Best  seats,  I  always  buy  the  best  seats.  Are  those  the 
best  seats  you  can  give  me?  Isn't  there  anything  nearer?  I 
couldn't  possibly  think  of  sitting  back  of  D.,  and  I  must  insist  on 
aisle  seats.  (You  know,  Margaret,  Jennie  and  I  always  draw 
to  see  which  one  shall  buy  the  caramels  and  have  the  aisle  seats.) 
How  much  are  these?  Two  dollars  apiece?  I  call  that  robbery. 
Why,  I  have  sat  there  any  number  of  times  and  never  paid  more 
than  a  dollar.     Let  me  see  something  cheaper,  please. 

Dollar  and  a  half?  Way  back  there?  That's  funny!  You  can 
get  lovely  seats  at  the  Bijou  for  that  price, — front  row,  I  believe.' 
I  never  would  pay  a  dollar  and  a  half  to  sit  there.  Where  are  the 
dollar  seats?  Oh,  balcony.  Oh,  Jennie  wouldn't  like  those.  She 
couldn't  see  a  thing.  She's  a  trifle  near-sighted,  although  she 
doesn't  like  to  admit  it.  Will  Ellen  Terry  play  Saturday  after- 
noon? Isn't  she  in  the  company  ?  Oh,  no,  of  course  not.  I  recol- 
lect now.  She  plays  with  Faversham,  doesn't  she  ?  I  always  get 
so  mixed. 

Anyway,  I  know  I've  seen  Hackett.  I  don't  remember  much 
about  the  play,  but  he  was  too  dear  for  anything.  It  was  "Henry 
VIII."  or  "Sherlock  Holmes"  or  something  like  that,  and  he  wore 
purple  tights  and  looked  stunning.  [To  the  man  behind:']  What, 
sir  ?  No,  I  haven't  decided  yet  what  I  want.  I've  been  standing 
in  line  one  solid  hour,  and  I  don't  intend  to  rush  now  for  anyone. 
(Men  are  so  rude!) 

What  can  you  give  me  for  fifty  cents  ?  Second  balcony  ?  That's 
what  they  call  "nigger  heaven,"  isn't  it  ?  I  never  sat  there  myself, 
but  I  know  real  nice  people  who  do  go  there.  Carrie  White  goes 
there  a  lot,  and  she's  an  awfully  swell  girl.  By  the  way,  Mar- 
garet, have  you  seen  that  new  coat  Carrie's  wearing?  My  dear, 
it's  a  dream ! — gray  broadcloth  made  with  the  new  style  sleeves 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.  32.  141 

and  trimmed  with Oh,  yes,  beg  pardon,  I  forgot  about  the 

seats.  Yes,  I  will  decide  at  once.  What?  Yes,  I  know  there  are 
others  waiting,  but  I've  been  waiting  myself  and  I  didn't  com- 
plain. [To  the  man  in  the  rear:]  I  think  it  very  impolite  of  you 
men  to  talk  so. 

There  aren't  any  seats  cheaper  than  fifty  cents,  are  there  ?  Well, 
I  thought  I'd  inquire.  I've  known  places  where  you  could  get  the 
best  seats  for  thirty  cents.    Xo,  it  wasn't  this  theatre.    Now.,  what 

would    advise,    Margaret  ?     To-day    is    Thursday,  and  Sat 

There,  what  am  I  thinking  about  ?  I  can't  go  Saturday,  of  course 
not.  That's  the  very  day  Maude  and  I  planned  to  cut  out  shirt- 
waists. Isn't  that  mean?  Well,  I'll  have  to  give  up  the  matinee, 
that's  all  there  is  about  it. 

Why,  I  never  saw  such  rude  men  in  my  life.  I  think  it  very 
strange  if  a  lady  can't  buy  theatre  tickets  without  being  insulted. 
I'll  never  patronize  this  theatre  again.  I'll  go  where  I  will  be 
treated  civilly  and  where  I  can  buy  a  decent  seat  without  paying 
all  creation. 

Margaret,  don't  you  buy  tickets,  either.  Come,  dear,  let's  go 
down  to  Hurler's  and  have  a  soda. 


WHEN   THE    MINISTER    CAME   TO    TEA. 


JULIET  WILBOR  TOMPKINS. 


M 


ANY  a  solemn  conference 
Went  on  in  high-backed  seat, 
And  long  we  pondered,  in  grave  suspense, 

What  the  minister  'd  like  to  eat. 
And  never  a  royal  pilgrimage 

So  fluttered  a  realm  in  fee ; 
For  the  hurrying  footsteps  came  and  went, 
And  the  heart  beat  thick  for  the  great  event, 
When  the  minister  came  to  tea. 

Oh,  the  pewter  was  polished  brave  and  bright, 
And  the  silver  shone  like  glass, 


142  WERNER'S   READINGS 

With  never  a  spot  or  a  speck  in  sight 
Where  the  clerical  eye  might  pass. 

For  mother  was  up  in  the  early  dawn, 
And  calling  to  Ann  and  me, 

And  the  floor  was  sanded  in  scrolls  and  waves, 

And  we  learned  how  a  good  little  girl  behaves 
When  the  minister  comes  to  tea! 

Then  the  cream  plop-plop'd  in  the  waiting  churn. 

And  our  arms  grew  tired  and  lame 
As  we  patiently  did  our  share  in  turn 

Till  the  clerical  butter  came. 
But  our  thoughts  kept  pace  with  the  dasher's  strider 

Telling  with  secret  glee 
To  all  unhonored  by  such  a  guest, 
How  the  minister  talked  and  ate  and  dressed 

When  he  came  to  our  house  to  tea. 

Oh,  the  things  we  piled  on  the  willow  plates, 
And  the  things  we  sniffed  with  pride ! 

And  the  solemn  visitor  in  our  gates — 
Did  he  chuckle  a  bit  inside? 

Under  his  grave,  abstracted  air, 

And  the  texts  that  he  turned  on  me, 

And  his  sighing  comments  on  worldlv  dross, 

And  his  somber  dealing  with  damson  sauce- 
Did  the  minister  like  his  tea? 

.  Was  he  a  human,  after  all, 

This  great  grandee  of  souls? 
Well,  Heaven  be  praised  that  he  did  not  fall 

At  the  lure  of  our  cakes  and  rolls. 
For  never  was  glorious  pride  like  ours 

(And  never  again  shall  be) 
When  the  warming-pan  rubbed  the  icy  sheet. 
For  the  sake  of  four  little  tired  feet, 

And  the  minister'd  been  to  tea ! 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.  32.  143 

THE    MINISTER    COMES    TO    TEA. 


Comedy   Verse   Monologue   for    a   Boy. 


OH !  they've  swept  the  parlor  carpet,  and  they've  dusted  every 
chair, 
And  they've  got  the  tidies  hangin'  jest  exactly  on  the  square; 
And  the  whatnot's  fixed  up  lovely,  and  the  mats  have  all  been 

beat, 
And  the  pantry's  brimmin'  over  with  the  bully  things  ter  eat. 
Sis  has  got  her  Sunday  dress  on,  and  she's  frizzin  up  her  bangs, 
Ma's  got  her  best  alpacky  and  she's  askin'  how  it  hangs. 
Pa  has  shaved  as  slick  as  can  be,  and  I'm  rigged  way  up  in  G, 
And  it's  all  because  we're  goin'  ter  have  the  minister  ter  tea. 

Oh !  the  table's  fixed  up  gaudy  with  the  gilt-edged  chiny  set, 
And  we'll  use  the  silver  tea-pot  and  the  comp'ny  spoons,  you  bet; 
And  we're  going  to  have  some  fruit-cake  and  some  thimbleberry 

jam, 
And  "riz  biscuits"  and  some  doughnuts,  and  some  chicken  and 

some  ham. 
Ma,  she'll  'polergize  like  fury  and  say  everything  is  bad, 
And  "sich  awful  luck  with  cookin'  she  is  sure  she  never  had," 
But  of  course  she's  only  bluffm',  for  it's  as  prime  as  prime  can  be, 
And  she's  only  talkin'  that  way  'cause  the  minister's  ter  tea. 

Everybody  is  a  smilin'  and  as  good  as  ever  wuz, 
Pa  won't  growl  about  the  vittles,  like  he  generally  does, 
And  he'll  ask  me  would  I  like  another  piece  of  pie ;  but  sho ! 
That,  er  course,  is  only  manners  an'  I'm  s'posed  ter  answer  "No !" 
Sis'll  talk  about  the  church  work  and  about  the  Sunday-school, 
Ma'll  tell  how  she  liked  that  sermon  that  was  on  the  Golden  Rule, 
And  if  I  upset  my  tumbler  they  won't  say  a  word  to  me — 
Yes,  a  boy  can  eat  in  comfort  with  the  minister  ter  tea ! 

Say!  a  minister,  you'd  reckon,  never'd  say  what  wasn't  true; 
But  that  isn't  so  with  ours,  and  I  jest  can  prove  it,  too; 
'Cause  when  sis  plays  the  organ  so  it  makes  yer  want  ter  die, 


144  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Why,  he  sits  and  says  it's  lovely,  and  that  seems  to  me  a  lie. 
But  I  like  him  all  the  samey,  and  I  only  wish  he'd  stay 
At  our  house  for  good  and  always  and  eat  with  us  every  day ; 
Only  think  of  havin'  goodies  every  evenin' !   Jiminee  ! 
And  I'd  never  get  a  scoldin'  with  the  minister  ter  tea! 


MEAN    LITTLE   TORMENT. 


MY  name's  Jack.  I'm  eight  years  old.  I've  a  sister  Arathusa, 
and  she  calls  me  a  little  torment.  I'll  tell  you  why.  You 
know  Arathusa  has  got  a  beau,  and  he  comes  to  see  her  every 
night,  and  they  turn  the  gas  'way,  'way  down  'till  you  can't 
hardly  see.  I  like  to  stay  in  the  room  with  the  gas  on  full  blaze, 
but  Arathusa  skites  me  out  of  the  room  every  night.  I  checked 
her  once,  you  better  believe.  You  know  she  went  to  the  door  to 
let  Alphonso  in,  and  I  crawled  under  the  sofa.  Then  they  came 
in,  and  it  got  awful  dark,  and  they  sat  down  on  the  sofa,  and  I 
couldn't  hear  nothing  but  smack  !  smack  !  smack  !  Then  I  reached 
out  and  jerked  Arathusa's  foot.  Then  she  jumped  and  said,  "Oh, 
mercy,  what's  that?"  and  Alphonso  said  she  was  a  "timid  little 
creature."  "Oh,  Alphonso,  I'm  happy  by  your  side,  but  when  I 
think  of  your  going  away  it  almost  breaks  my  heart."  Then  I 
snickered  right  out,  I  couldn't  help  it,  and  Arathusa  got  up,  went 
and  peeked  through  the  key-hole  and  said,  "I  do  believe  that's 
Jack — mean  little  torment — he's  always  where  he  isn't  wanted." 
Do  you  know,  this  made  me  mad,  and  I  crawled  out  from  under 
the  sofa  and  stood  up  before  her  and  said,  "You  think  you  are 
smart  because  you  wear  a  Grecian  bend.  I  guess  I  know  what 
you've  been  doing;  you've  been  sitting  on  Alphonso's  lap,  and 
letting  him  kiss  you  like  you  let  Bill  Jones  kiss  you.  You  ought 
to  be  ashamed  of  yourself.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  that  old  false  front 
of  yours,  pa  would  have  let  me  have  a  bicycle  like  Tom  Clifford's. 
You  needn't  be  grinding  them  false  teeth  of  yours  at  me;  I  ain't 
a-goin'  out  of  here.  I  ain't  so  green  as  I  look.  I  guess  I  know 
a  thing  or  two.  I  don't  care  if  you  are  28  years  old,  you  ain't  no 
boss  of  me!" 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  32.  .  14S 

"STUDYING   GERMAN." 


Comedy  Monologue  for  a  Girl. 


SARAH  E.  PITTMAN. 


Written   Expressly   for  this  Book. 


Scene  :    Enter  Girl  with  book  in  hand ;  begins  studying  as  she 
enters. 

< '  T  CH— haba— gahabt— 

1        Du  es" — no,  no — 

"Du  hast  gahabt — 

Er — se" — Oh,  shoo  fly, — I  never  can  learn  such  gibberish  ! 

"Ich  haba — Ich — Ich" — Christopher  Columbus,  how  it  does 
twist  my  tongue,  but  I  must  learn  it — of  course  I  must  learn  it — 
if  it  puts  every  muscle  in  my  face  out  of  joint.  "Du  hast  gahabt." 
Jehosaphat,  I  believe  I've  got  the  lockjaw  now.  "Ich  haba,  Ich 
haba,  Ich  haba" — when  I  learn  to  speak  this  beloved  language 
fluently,  I  am  going  to  Europe,  to  visit  Germany,  to  sit  beside  the 
Emperor  like  Consuela  did,  and  to  charm  him  with  my  "Ich  haba 
gahabt."  I  shall  be  able  by  that  time  to  pronounce  it  very  much 
better  than  I  do  now.  Dear  me,  I  am  beginning  to  think  that  I 
am  getting  on  very  slowly — quite  discouraged  at  times — looks  as 
if  there  was  no  Dutch  in  me. 

"Du  hast  gahabt — Du  has — Du" — Oh,  the  poor  old  Professor, 
how  he  does  scowl  and  how  earnestly  he  will  say,  "Oh,  my  dear 
mees,  you  nefar  study  much,  I  fears  you  should  apply  your  mind 
-—you  me  so  fery  much  worried" — Worried  !  worried  ? — I'd  like 
to  know  what  about  me?  you  old  goose — "Ich  haba  gahabt,"  not 
much,  old  fellow,  I  no  love  you — but  I  really  do  believe — to  give 
him  his  dues — he  does  try  his  level  best  to  bang  the  stuff  into  my 
head.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha !  He  fairly  shivers  with  a  chill  at  my  blun- 
ders— ha !  ha !  ha ! — I  really  believe  that  I  will  be  the  microbe 
that  will  develop  nervous  prostration  in  his  anatomy — ha!  ha! 


146  WERNER'S  READINGS 

ha !  ha !  It  is  too  absolutely  funny  to  see  him  start  and  stretch 
out  that  long  bony  hand,  with  his  waving  head  keeping  time  with 
his  spreading  "diggits" — and  an  awful  agonizing  look  on  his  face 
as  he  listens  to  my — "Ich  haba  gahabt,  gahabt,  gahabt — Du,  Du 
■ — es  es  gahabt,  gahabt — Du  hast  gahabt — Ha  !  ha  !  It's  enough 
to  make  a  monkey  laugh.  He  is  ready  to  expire  with  disgust,  but 
he  don't.  He  simply  gulps  down  his  wrath,  pockets  his  profane 
ammunition,  and  will  say  quite  amiably,  with  a  prophetic  shake 
of  his  head :    "Oh,  veil,  veil,  you  vill  some  time  learn." 

But  this  isn't  trying  to  learn  some  time — "Ich  haba  gahabt — 
Du  hast  gahabt" — yes,  I  think  everybody  has  loved  some  time  in 
their  lives — now  I  do  wonder  if  that  old  Prof,  ever  felt  the  sting 
of  Cupid's  dart — ha!  ha! — "Ich,  Ich" — ha!  ha! — I've  just 
thought  of  a  bright  idea — a  startling  announcement.  I'll  just 
marry  the  old  Prof,  and  that  will  end  all  further  bother  and  worri- 
ment,  for  he  can  furnish  Dutch  enough  for  the  family — I'll  have 
to  do  all  the  courting — "Ich  haba" — he  wouldn't  know  how,  ha ! 
ha !  ha !  wouldn't  he  think  that  a  whole  Fourth  of  July  had  ex- 
ploded at  his  feet,  if  I  was  to  say — well — I  hardly  know  just  how 
I  should  pop  the  question.  I  would  have  to  wait  for  the  occasion 
to  give  me  the  inspiration. 

But  I  must  get  my  lesson  without  any  more  shilly-shallying — 
"Ich,  Ich" — oh,  this  old  grammar  is  the  plague  of  my  life.  I 
think  I'll  give  up  modern  classics,  but  what  could  I  do  with 
Greek  ?    No,  I  must  stick  to  this  : 

"Ich  haba  gahabt — 
Du  hast  gahabt — 
Er — es — ha  ga " 


Oh,   con — 'Script  the   in ternal   revenue   stamps — there,   go 

into  that  corner  and  stay  there  until  called  for  with  your  "Ich 
haba  gahabt,  etc.,  etc."  I  like  the  plain  English  to  tell  the  old 
story : 

"I  love  I  have  loved 

Thou  lovest          Thou  hast  loved 

He  loves  He  hast  loved." 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.   32.  147 


'BILL   THAY.' 


Comedy  Lisping  Dialect  Monologue  for  a  Boy. 


MARY    TUCKER    MAGILL. 


Characters  :  Master  Brown,  Speaker,  present ,  who  addresses 
his  conversation  to  audience;  Bill  Smith,  supposed  to  enter 
towards  end  of  monologue. 

[Enter  Master  Brown  slowly  and  awkwardly,  looks  at  audi- 
ence as  if  listening  to  a  question,  smiles,  nods,  hunches  himself, 
and  speaks.] 

YETH,  me  an'  him  'th  right  intimate.  He  knoweth  more  than 
I  do,  'cauth  he'th  had  more  exthperienth.  Bill  thay  hith 
father  wath  a  robber. 

Bill  thay  that  he'th  got  ten  millionth  of  dollarth  of  gold  buried 
down  in  hith  thellar  along  with  a  lot  of  human  boneth,  people 
he'th  killed.  An'  Bill  thay  that  hith  father  makth  all  the  earth- 
quakth  that  happen  anywhere  in  the  world,  an'  when  the  old  man 
comth  home  thometimes,  he  feelth  tho  thorry  for  him,  'cauth  he'th 
all  tired  to  death  makin'  earthquakth.  It  thtandth  to  reathon  it'th 
hard  work  tearin'  up  the  earth  that  way.  An'  Bill  thay  that  hith 
father  juth  taketh  bith  out  of  people  if  he  don't  like  'em,  an  a 
lightnin'-rod  man  come  along  one  day,  an'  Bill  thay  hith  father 
juth  ate  him  right  up,  'cauth  he  got  mad  at  him. 

An'  Bill  thay  one  day  he  wath  a'flyin'  of  a  kite,  an'  he  had  one 
of  theth  little  dogth  that  juth  run  along,  an'  Bill  thay  he  tied  the 
kite  to  the  dogth  tail  juth  for  fun,  an'  prethently  the  wind  thruck 
Her  an'  the  went  boomin'  down  the  thtreet  about  a  mile  with  her 
hind  legth  in  the  air.  Prethently  the  kite  commenthed  going  up. 
Thoon  the  dogth  was  fifteen  milth  high,  an'  could  thee  California 
an'  Egypt,  an'  Oshkosh,  I  think  Bill  thed,  or  it  thound  like  that, 
but  I  don't  like  to  thay  for  thertain.  Anyhow,  I  know  he  come 
down  in  Brathil,  an'  he  thwam  all  the  way  home  in  the  Atlantic 


148  WERNER'S  READINGS 

ocean,  an'  when  he  got  there  all  hith  legth  wath  et  off  by  the 
tharkth.  I  with  my  father  would  give  me  a  dogth  tho  I  could 
thend  it  off  that  way,  but  he  never  givth  me  nothin'.  I  never 
have  no  fun  like  Bill  doth;  he'th  too  thtrick. 

Bill  thay  another  time  he  wath  a-flyin'  of  hith  kite,  an'  he  went 
up  on  top  of  the  houth  to  give  himthelf  plenty  of  room,  an'  thet 
up  on  the  chimley,  an'  the  old  man  had  put  a  keg  of  powder  down 
below  there  to  blow  the  thut  out  of  the  chimley,  an'  he  thet  her 
off  juth  then,  an'  Bill  wath  blowed  over  againtht  the  Baptith 
church  thteeple,  an'  he  hung  on  there  for  four  dayth  before  they 
could  get  him  off.  He  juth  lived  by  eatin'  the  crowth  that  come 
an'  thet  on  him,  'cauth  they  thought  he  wath  made  out  of  theet- 
iron  and  put  there  for  purputh. 

Bill  thay  that  hith  brother  invented  a  thothage  thtuffer  onth. 
It  wath  a  kind  of  a  mathine,  what  worked  with  a  treadle.  You 
put  the  mathine  on  the  hog'th  back  an'  the  hog'th  foot  on  the 
treadle,  an'  you  thuck  him  with  a  pin  an'  that  made  the  hogth 
move  the  treadle,  you  know,  an'  in  a  minute  the  hogth  wath  cut 
up  in  fine  pieces  in  the  treddle  an'  thtuffed  an'  thkinned,  an'  Bill 
thay  hith  brother  called  every  hogth  hith  own  thtuffer.  That 
muth  o'  bin  a  right  curiouth  kind  of  a  mathine  to  work.  I  can't 
juth  thee  how  he  did  it,  but  I  know  ith  tho,  'cauth  Bill'th  a  good 
boy,  he  ith,  an'  never  tellth  no  thtorieth.  He  goeth  to  Thunday 
thkool,  he  doeth. 

He'th  a  good  boy,  he  ith,  an'  he  told  me  about  hith  uncle  what 
lived  out  in  Authtralia,  what  wath  et  by  a  big  oythter;  an'  he 
thtayed  there  till  he  et  the  oythter.  Then  he  thplit  the  thellth 
open,  took  one  of  'em  for  a  boat,  an'  he  thailed  along,  an'  he 
thailed  along,  till  he  come  to  a  thea-therpent,  an'  juth  caught  it 
an'  thripped  ith  thkin  all  off  of  it,  an'  thold  it  to  an  engine  com- 
pany to  put  out  fireth  with.  He  thold  it  for  forty  thouthand 
dollarth. 

An'  Bill  thay  the  Injunth  took  him  wunth  an'  they  cut  hith 
thcalp  off,  an'  thtuck  him  half  a  dothen  timeth  through  the  body, 
an'  never  hurt  him  a  bit.  He  juth  made  hith  ethcape  by  the 
daughter  of  the  chief  takin'  him  out  of  the  wigwam  an'  givin' 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.   32.  149 

him  a  horth  to  ride.  Bill  thay — Bill  thay— he !  he !— that  the 
wath  in  love  with  him.  He  thay  he  could  thow  me  the  holth  in 
hith  body  now,  but  he'th  afraid  to  take  hith  cloth  off,  fear  he'd 
bleed  to  death.  Nobody  don't  know  about  it.  Wouldn't  tell  the 
old  man  'cauth  he'th  'fraid  he'd  worry  about  it. 

Bill  thay  he  ain't  goin'  to  Thunday  thkool  no  more ;  thay  he'th 
goin'  to  turn  a  heathen,  'cauth  hith  father'th  got  a  brath  idol  at 
home.  He'th  goin'  to  wear  a  blanket  an'  carry  a  tomahawk  ath 
thoon  ath  the  weather  geth  warm. 

Bill  thay  hith  father  dug  a  big  hole  under  thith  thity,  an'  got 
it  all  filled  up  with  dynamite  an'  powder  an'  thingth,  an'  he'th 
goin'  to  blow  her  up  when  he  geth  ready.  An'  Bill  thay  he  goin' 
to  tell  me,  tho  I  can  get  away.  Bill  liketh  me,  he  do.  An'  Bill 
thay — but  thar'th  Bill  now ;  do  you  hear  him  whithlin'  ?  I  ecthpec' 
he  srot  thomethin'  more  to  tell  me.     I  muth  s:o.     Good-bye. 


WELCOME. 


A    Child's    Speech. 


IT  scares  me,  my  friends,  to  speak  to  you  to-night.  My  heart 
goes  pitty  pat.  I  want  to  speak  my  piece  and  can  scarce  think 
what  to  say.  Mine  is  a  speech  of  welcome.  I  am  to  say  welcome 
to  you  all,  right  welcome  to  our  hall,  our  hearts,  and  to  hear  what 
we  have  to  say.  Some  of  the  larger  boys  who  are  studying  arith- 
metic and  geography  and  grammar  will  make  believe  they  are 
orators,  or  generals  or  kings,  but  I  don't ;  you  all  know  me  and 
it's  no  use  for  me  to  pretend  to  be  what  I  am  not ;  besides,  I  can 
welcome  you  just  as  well,  just  as  I  am,  and  now  I  say,  you  are 
just  as  welcome  as  you  can  be.  We  are  real  glad  you  are  here. 
iWe  wondered  if  you  would  come,  we  wanted  you  to  come,  we  are 
glad  you  have  come,  we  thank  you  for  your  coming.  Now  you 
know  you  are  welcome. 


150  WERNER'S   READINGS 


THE  LONG  AGO. 


Comedy  Monologue  for  a  Man. 


Translated  and  arranged  from  the  French  expressly  for  this  book  by  Lucy 
Hayes  Macqueen. 


Character  :    A  Man,  the  Speaker. 

ONCE  upon  a  time,  long  ago — but  long  ago  is  not  a  strong 
enough  expression.  It  was  a  long,  long,  long,  long  time 
ago. 

Well,  once  upon  a  time,  long  ago — one  day — no,  there  was 
neither  day  nor  night  then — so  one  time — what  else  can  I  say  ? — 
there  came  into  someone's  head — no,  there  were  no  heads  then — 
anyhow,  an  idea  came — that  is  a  good  expression — an  idea  came 
to  someone  to  do  something. 

He  wanted  to  drink — but  what  was  there  to  drink?  There 
were  no  wines  nor  beers,  then ;  no  sauterne,  champagne,  ver- 
mouth, absinthe,  cocktail,  brandy,  white  wine,  red  wine,  cider, 
water,  ginger  ale, — nor  anything  to  drink.  You  see,  times  have 
improved  since  then,  very  much. 

Well,  not  being  able  to  drink,  he  decided  to  eat,  but  to  eat 
what  ?  There  was  no  turtle  soup  then,  no  turbot  with  caper  sauce, 
no  roast-beef,  no  beef  a  la  mode,  no  sauerkraut,  no  potatoes,  no 
pears,  no  cheese — no  indigestion,  no  blues,  nothing  of  that  kind. 
You  see  how  times  have  improved  since  then. 

[Gay/y.]  So,  not  being  able  to  eat  nor  drink,  he  decided  to 
sing — but  to  sing  what?  '  [Sadly.]  There  were  no  drinking 
songs,  no  love  ditties  with  "flower"  and  "our,"  and  "love"  and 
"dove"  rhyming  sweetly  in  them ;  there  was  no  flute  nor  guitar 
nor  mandolin,  then ;  not  even  a  piano  upon  which  the  inn-keeper's 
daughter  could  play  an  accompaniment  while  he  sang.  What 
progress  the  world  has  made  since  then ! 

So,  as  he  could  not  sing,  he  wanted  to  dance,  but  where  ?  There 
were  no  balls,  then,  nor  little  home  dancing  parties  where  au 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  32.  151 

ogre  of  a  father  and  an  eagle-eyed  mother  keep  their  eyes  on  you 
all  the  time ;  there  was  no  chocolate  to  spill  over  your  clothing — 
nothing  of  that  kind  whatever ;  and  no  pretty  young  ladies  to  be 
your  partners — so  what  was  the  use  of  dancing? 

Then,  since  he  could  not  eat,  drink,  sing  nor  dance,  he  could 
only  sleep.  So  he  decided  to  go  to  bed.  But  there  was  no  night, 
no  bed,  no  pretty  wadded  silk  coverlets,  no  warm-water  bath,  no 
night-lamp  on  the  table  and  French  novel — well,  you  see,  we  have 
made  some  progress  since  then. 

Then,  he  decided  to  fall  in  love.  He  said  to  himself,  I  shall  be 
very  affectionate ;  I  shall  sigh ;  it  will  be  a  distraction ;  I  shall 
even  be  jealous,  and  beat  my — my  what?  Beat  whom?  What? 
Be  jealous  of  whom  ?  Whom  shall  I  love — sigh  for  ?  For  a 
brunette?  There  are  no  brunettes.  For  a  blonde?  There  are 
no  blondes.  There  are  no  black  locks,  nor  gold  locks,  nor  red 
locks — not  even  a  false  wig — for  there  are  no  ladies  at  all,  any- 
where. Women  had  not  been  invented  then.  Oh,  what  progress 
we  have  made  since  then ! 

Then,  I  shall  die,  he  said.  [Resignedly-]  I  want  to  die — but 
how?  There  were  no  Brooklyn  bridges  to  jump  off,  then — no 
ropes  to  hang  one's  self  with,  no  revolvers,  no  fatal  diseases,  no 
drugs,  no  apothecaries  and — no  doctors ! 

Then,  he  wanted  to  do  nothing.  [Plaintively.']  What  more 
unhappy  position  could  one  be  in!  [Joyfully.]  But  no — do  not 
pity  him — there  were  no  unhappy  positions  then — no  unhappi- 
ness.  Happiness  and  unhappiness  are  modern,  you  know — people 
were  neither  happy  nor  unhappy  long  ago. 

So  ends — but  no — there  was  no  end,  then';  endings  had  not  been 
invented.  To  end  is  an  invention  of  our  times — it  is  a  part  of  our 
progress.  Oh,  progress,  progress!  [He  walks  stupidly  off 
stage.] 


152  WERNER'S  READINGS 

WHEN   PA   WAS   A   BOY. 


Comedy  Child  Dialect  Monologue. 


S.  E.  RISER. 


I   WISH  'at  I'd  of  been  here  when 
My  paw  he  was  a  boy; 
They  must  of  been  excitement  then — 

When  my  paw  was  a  boy. 
In  school  he  always  took  the  prize, 
He  used  to  lick  boys  twice  his  size — ■ 
I  bet  folks  all  had  bulgin'  eyes  ■ 
When  my  paw  was  a  boy ! 

There  was  a  lot  of  wonders  done 

When  my  paw  was  a  boy ; 
How  grandpa  must  have  loved  his  son, 

When  my  paw  was  a  boy ! 
He'd  git  the  coal  and  chop  the  wood, 
And  think  up  every  way  he  could 
To  always  just  be  sweet  and  good — 

When  my  paw  was  a  boy ! 

Then  everything  was  in  its  place, 

When  my  paw  was  a  boy; 
How  he  could  rassle,  jump  and  race, 

When  my  paw  was  a  boy ! 
He  never,  never  disobeyed ; 
He  beat  in  every  game  he  played — 
Gee !    What  a  record  they  was  made ! 

When  my  paw  was  a  boy ! 

I  wish  'at  I'd  of  been  here  when 
My  paw  he  was  a  boy; 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.   32.  153 

They'll  never  be  his  like  agen — 

Paw  was  the  moddle  boy, 
But  still  last  night  I  heard  my  maw 
Raise  up  her  voice  and  call  my  paw 
The  biggest  goose  she  ever  saw — 

He  ought  of  stayed  a  boy. 


POSTPONED. 


Pathetic  Monologue  in  Verse  for  a  Man. 


CHARLES   E.   BAER. 


[Anyone  familiar  with  farm  life  knows  that  when  the  old  dog  becomes  blind,  tooth- 
less, and  helpless  it  is  the  sad  but  humane  duty  of  the  farmer  to  put  an  end  to  his 
sufferings;  it  is  generally  done  by  taking  him  off  to  the  woods  and  shooting  him. 
Although  the  new  dog  quickly  wins  his  place  in  our  affections,  the  old  is  not  soon 
forgotten.] 

Character:    Farmer,  Speaker;  Dog,  supposed  to  be  present. 
Costume  :    Farmer  clothes  and  carrying  a  gun. 
Scene  :    Enter  Farmer  at  Stage  L.,  upper  entrance. 

COME  along,  old  chap,  yer  time's  'bout  up, 
We  got  another  brindle  pup  ; 
I  'lows  it's  tough  an'  mighty  hard, 
But  a  toothless  dog's  no  good  on  guard; 
So  trot  along  right  after  me, 
An'  I'll  put  yeh  out  o'  yer  misery. 

Now,  quit  yer  waggin'  that  stumpy  tail — 
We  ain't  a-goin'  fer  rabbit  er  quail ; 
'Sides,  yeh  couldn't  pint  a  bird  no  more, 
Yer  old  an'  blind  an'  stiff  an'  sore, 
An'  that's  why  I  loaded  the  gun  to-day — 
Yer  a-rittin'  cross  an'  in  the  way. 

I  been  thinkin'  it  over ;  'tain't  no  fun. 

I  don't  like  to  do  it,  but  it's  got  to  be  done ; 

Got  sort  of  a  notion,  veh  know,  too, 


154  WERNER'S   READINGS 

The  kind  of  a  job  we're  goin'  to  do, 

Else,  why  would  yeh  hang  back  that  a-way, 

Yeh  ain't  ez  young  ez  yeh  once  wuz,  hey ! 

Frisky  dog  in  them  days,  I  note, 

When  yeh  nailed  the  sneak  thief  by  the  throat, 

Can't  do  that  now,  an'  there  ain't  no  need 

A-keepin'  a  dog  that  don't  earn  his  feed. 

So  yeh  got  to  make  way  for  the  brindle  pup; 

Come  along,  old  chap,  yer  time's  'bout  up. 

We'll  travel  along  at  an  easy  jog — 
Course,  yeh  don't  know,  bein'  only  a  dog; 
But  I  can  mind  when  yeh  wuz  sprier, 
Wakin'  us  up  when  the  barn  caught  fire — 
It  don't  seem  possible,  yet  I  know 
That  was  close  onto  fifteen  year  ago. 

My,  but  yer  hair  wuz  long  an'  thick 
When  yeh  pulled  little  Salley  out  o'  the  crick ; 
An'  it  came  in  handy  that  night  in  the  storm, 
We  coddled  to  keep  each  other  warm. 
Purty  good  dog,  I'll  admit — but,  say, 
What's  the  use  o'  talkin',  yeh  had  yer  day. 

I'm  hopin'  the  children  won't  hear  the  crack, 
Er  what  I'll  say  when  I  git  back  ? 
They'd  be  askin'  questions,  I  know  their  talk, 
An'  I'd  have  to  lie  'bout  a  chicken  hawk; 
But  the  sound  won't  carry  beyond  this  hill, 
All  done  in  a  minute — don't  bark,  stand  still. 

There,  that'll  do;  steady,  quit  lickin'  my  hand. 

What's  wrong  with  this  gun,  I  can't  understand; 

I'm  jest  ez  shaky  ez  I  can  be — 

Must  be  the  agey's  the  matter  with  me. 

An'  that  stich  in  the  back — what !  gittin'  old,  too — = 

The — dinner — bell's — ringin' — fer — me — an'  you. 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.   32.  155 

PLEASURE    EXERTION. 


Comedy  Yankee  Dialect  Character  Sketch  Recital  for  a  Woman. 


MARIETTA  HOLLEY. 


Character  :     Josiah   Allen's    Wife,    Speaker,    present,  who 
directs  her  conversation  to  audience. 

ALL  summer  long  Josiah  Allen  had  beset  me  to  go  to  a 
pleasure  exertion  with  him,  and  I  have  had  to  work  head- 
work  to  make  excuses  and  quell  him  down.  But  last  week  they 
was  goin'  to  have  one  out  on  the  lake,  on  a  island,  and  that  man 
sot  his  foot  down  that  go  he  would. 

We  was  to  the  breakfast-table  a  talkin'  it  over,  and  says  I : 

"I  shan't  go,  for  I  am  afraid  of  big  water,  anyway." 

Says  Josiah :  "You  are  jest  as  liable  to  be  killed  in  one  place  as 
another." 

"Mebby  I  shall  be  drounded  on  dry  land,  Josiah  Allen,  but  I 
don't  believe  it." 

"Wall,"  says  he,  "I  guess  I'll  have  another  griddle-cake, 
Samantha." 

And  as  he  poured  the  maple-syrup  over  it,  he  added  gently, 
but  firmly : 

"I  shall  go,  Samantha,  to  this  exertion,  and  I  should  be  glad 
to  have  you  present  at  it,  because  it  seems  jest  to  me  as  if  I  should 
fall  overboard  durin'  the  day." 

Men  are  deep.  Now  that  man  knew  that  no  amount  of  re- 
ligious preachin'  could  stir  me  up  like  that  one  speech.    I  went. 

We  had  got  to  start  about  the  middle  of  the  night,  for  the  lake 
was  15  miles  from  Jonesville,  and  the  old  mare  bein'  so  slow,  we 
had  got  to  start  an  hour  or  two  ahead  of  the  rest.  I  told  Josiah 
that  I  had  jest  as  lieves  set  up  all  night,  as  to  be  routed  out  at  two 
o'clock,  but  he  was  so  animated  and  happy  at  the  idee  of  goin' 
that  he  said  that  we  would  go  to  bed  before  dark,  and  get  as  much 
sleep  as  we  commonly  did.  So  we  went  to  bed  with  the  sun  an 
hour  high.  And  I  was  truly  tired  enough  to  lay  down,  for  I  had 
worked  that  day  almost  beyond  my   strength.     But  we  hadn't 


156  WERNER'S ,  READINGS 

more'n  got  settled  down  into  the  bed,  when  we  heard  a  buggy 
stop  at  the  gate,  and  I  got  up  and  peeked  through  the  window, 
and  I  see  it  was  visitors  come  to  spend  the  evenin'.  Elder  Bamber 
and  his  family,  and  Deacon  Dobbins'es  folks. 

Josiah  vowed  that  he  wouldn't  stir  one  step  out  of  that  bed 
that  night.  But  I  argued  with  him  pretty  sharp,  while  I  was 
throwin'  on  my  clothes,  and  I  finally  got  him  started  up.  I 
thought  if  I  got  my  clothes  all  on  before  they  came  in,  I  wouldn't 
tell  'em  that  I  had  been  to  bed.  And  I  did  get  all  dressed  up,  even 
to  my  handkerchief-pin.  And  I  guess  they  had  been  there  as 
much  as  ten  minutes  before  I  thought  that  I  hadn't  took  my 
night-cap  off.  They  looked  dretful  curious  at  me,  but  I  never 
said  nothin'.  But  when  Josiah  come  out  of  the  bedroom  with 
what  little  hair  he  has  got  standin'  out  in  every  direction,  and 
one  of  his  galluses  a-hangin'  most  to  the  floor,  I  up  and  told  'em. 
I  thought  mebby  they  wouldn't  stay  long.  But  Deacon  Dobbins'es 
folks  seemed  to  be  all  waked  up  on  thu  subject  of  religion,  and 
they  proposed  we  should  turn  it  into  a  kind  of  a  conference 
meetin' ;  so  they  never  went  home  until  after  ten  o'clock. 

It  was  most  eleven  when  Josiah  and  me  got  to  bed  again.  And 
then  jest  as  I  was  gettin'  into  a  drowse,  I  heerd  the  cat  in  the 
buttery,  and  I  got  up  to  let  her  out.  And  that  rousted  Josiah  up, 
and  he  thought  he  heerd  the  cattle  in  the  garden,  and  he  got  up 
and  went  out.  And  there  we  was  a-marchin'  round  most  all 
night. 

But  as  bad  and  wore  out  as  Josiah  felt  bodily,  he  was  all  ani- 
mated in  his  mind  about  what  a  good  time  he  was  goin'  to  have. 
I  wanted  to  wear  my  brown  and  black  gingham  and  a  shaker,  but 
Josiah  insisted  that  I  should  wear  a  new  lawn  dress  that  he  had 
brought  me  home  as  a  present.  So,  to  please  him,  I  put  it  on, 
and  my  best  bonnet. 

And  that  man,  all  I  could  do  and  say,  would  put  on  a  pair  of 
pantaloons  I  had  been  amakin'  for  Thomas  Jefferson.  They  was 
gettin'  up  a  military  company  to  Jonesville,  and  these  pantaloons 
was  blue,  with  a  red  stripe  down  the  sides.  Josiah  took  a  awful 
fancy  to  'em,  and  says  he :  • 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.   32.  157 

"I  will  wear  'em,  Samantha;  they  look  so  dressy." 

Says  I :  "They  hain't  hardly  done.  I  was  goin'  to  stitch  that 
red  stripe  on  the  left  leg  on  again.  They  hain't  finished  as  they 
ort  to  be,  and  I  would  not  wear  'em.     It  looks  vain  in  you." 

Says  he :  "I  will  wear  'em,  Samantha.  I  will  be  dressed  up  for 
once."    So  he  put  'em  on. 

I  had  good  vittles,  and  a  sight  of  'era.  The  basket  wouldn't 
hold  'em  all,  so  Josiah  had  to  put  a  bottle  of  red  rassberry  jell 
into  the  pocket  of  his  dress-coat,  and  lots  of  other  little  things, 
such  as  spoons  and  knives  and  forks,  in  his  pantaloons  and  breast- 
pockets. He  looked  like  Captain  Kidd,  armed  up  to  the  teeth, 
and  I  told  him  so.  But,  good  land !  he  would  have  carried  a 
knife  in  his  mouth  if  I  had  asked  him  to,  he  felt  so  neat  about 
goin',  and  boasted  so  on  what  a  splendid  exertion  it  was  goin' 
to  be. 

We  got  to  the  lake  about  eight  o'clock.  We  was  about  the  first 
ones  there,  but  they  kep'  a-comin',  and  before  ten  o'clock  we  all 
got  there. 

I  had  made  up  my  mind  from  the  first  out  to  face  trouble,  so 
it  didn't  put  me  out  so  much  when  Deacon  Dobbins,  in  gettin'  into 
the  boat,  stepped  onto  my  new  lawn  dress,  and  tore  a  hole  in  it 
as  big  as  my  two  hands,  and  ripped  it  half  ofren  the  waist.  But 
Josiah  got  worked  up  awfully  when  the  wind  took  his  hat  off  and 
blew  it  away  out  onto  the  lake. 

I  did  the  best  I  could  by  him.  I  pinned  on  his  red  bandanna 
handkerchief  onto  his  head.  But  as  I  was  a-fixim  it  on,  I  see 
there  was  sunthin'  more  than  mortification  ailed  him.  The  lake 
was  rough  and  the  boat  rocked,  and  he  was  beginnin'  to  be  awful 
sick.  He  looked  deathly.  Pretty  soon  I  felt  bad,  too.  Oh !  the 
wretchedness  of  that  time.  I  have  enjoyed  poor  health  consider- 
able in  my  life,  but  never  did  I  enjoy  so  much  sickness  in  so  short 
a  time  as  I  did  on  that  pleasure  exertion  to  that  island.  When 
we  reached  there,  we  was  both  weak  as  cats. 

Finally,  I  got  so  I  could  walk  straight,  and  sense  things  a  little, 
and  I  began  to  take  the  things  out  of  my  dinner-basket.  The  but- 
ter had  all  melted  and  a  lot  of  water  had  swashed  over  the  side  of 


158  WERNER'S  READINGS 

the  boat,  so  ray  cake  and  cookies  looked  awfully  mixed  up.    But 
no  worse  than  the  rest  of  the  company's  did. 

The  chicken  and  cold  meat  bein'  more  solid  had  held  together 
quite  well,  though  it  was  all  very  wet  and  soppy.  We  didn't  feel 
so  animated  about  eatin'  as  we  should  if  we  hadn't  been  so  sick 
to  our  stomachs.  But  we  felt  as  if  we  must  hurry,  for  the  man 
that  owned  the  boat  said  he  knew  it  would  rain  before  night,  by 
the  way  the  sun  scalded. 

Wall,  all  of  a  sudden  I  thought,  where  is  Josiah  ?  I  asked  the 
company  wildly  if  they  had  seen  my  companion,  Josiah. 

They  said,  "No,  they  hadn't." 

But  Celestine  Wilkin's  little  girl  says,  'T  seen  him  goin'  off 
towards  the  woods.  He  acted  dretful  strange,  too;  he  seemed  to 
be  a-walkin'  off  sideways." 

"Had  the  sufferin's  he  had  undergone  made  him  delirious?" 
says  I  to  myself;  and  then  I  started  off  on  the  run  towards  the 
woods,  and  old  Miss  Bobbet,  and  Miss  Gowdy,  and  Sister  Bam- 
ber,  and  Deacon  Dobbins'es  wife  all  rushed  after  me. 

Oh,  the  agony  of  them  two  or  three  minutes !  All  of  a  sudden, 
on  the  edge  of  the  woods,  we  found  him.  He  sot  backed  up 
against  a  tree,  in  a  awful  cramped  position,  with  his  left  leg  under 
him.     Miss  Gowdy  hollered  out : 

"Oh,  here  you  be.  We  have  been  skairt  about  you.  What  is 
the  matter?" 

He  smiled  a  dretful  sick  smile,  and,  says  he : 

"Oh,  I  thought  I  would  come  out  here  and  meditate  a  spell.  It 
was  always  a  real  treat  to  me  to  meditate." 

Says  I,  "What  is  the  matter,  Josiah  Allen?" 

"I  am  a-meditatin',  Samantha." 

Says  I,  "Do  you  come  down  and  jine  the  company  this  minute, 
Josiah  Allen." 

The  wimmen  happened  to  be  a-lookin'  the  other  way  for  a  min- 
ute, and  he  looked  at  me  as  if  he  would  take  my  head  off,  and 
made  the  strangest  motions  towards  'em ;  but  the  minute  they 
looked  at  him  he  would  pretend  to  smile,  that  deathly  smi'le. 

Says  I,  "Come,  Josiah  Allen,  we're  goin'  to  get  dinner  right 
away,  for  we  are  afraid  it  will  rain." 


AND   RECITATIONS  NO.   32.  159 

"Oh,  wall,"  says  he,  "a  little  rain,  more  or  less,  hain't  a-goin' 
to  hender  a  man  from  meditatin'." 

Says  I,  "Do  you  stop  meditatin'  this  minute,  Josiah  Allen !" 

Says  he,  "I  won't  stop,  Samantha.  I  let  you  have  your  way  a 
good  deal  of  the  time ;  but  when  I  take  it  into  my  head  to  medi- 
tate, you  hain't  a  goin'  to  break  it  up." 

Jest  at  that  minute  they  called  to  me  from  the  shore  and  we 
had  to  start  off.  But,  oh !  the  gloom  of  my  mind.  Had  the  suf- 
fering of  the  night  added  to  the  trials  of  the  day  made  him 
crazy  ?  I  thought  more'n  as  likely  as  not  I  had  got  a  luny  on  my 
hands  for  the  rest  of  my  days. 

The  distress  of  that  pleasure  exertion !  But  I  kep'  to  work,  and 
when  we  had  got  dinner  most  ready,  I  went  back  to  call  Josiah 
again.  Old  Miss  Bobbet  said  she  would  go  with  me.  So  we 
started  up  the  hill. 

Says  I,  "Come,  Josiah  Allen,  dinner  is  ready." 

"Oh !  I  hain't  hungry,"  says  he.  "The  table  will  probable  be 
full.    I  had  jest  as  lieves  wait." 

"Table  full !"  says  I.  "You  know  jest  as  well  as  I  do  that  we 
are  eatin'  on  the  ground.  Do  you  come  and  eat  your  dinner  this 
minute!" 

"Yes,  do  come,"  says  Miss  Bobbet,  "we  can't  get  along  without 
you." 

"Oh !  I  have  got  plenty  to  eat  here — I  can  eat  muskeeters." 

The  air  was  black  with  'em,  I  couldn't  deny  it. 

"The  muskeeters  will  eat  you  more  likely,"  says  I.  "Look  at 
your  face  and  hands ;  they  are  all  covered  with  'em." 

"Yes,  they  have  eat  considerable  of  a  dinner  out  of  me,  but  I 
don't  begrech  'em.  I  hain't  small  enough,  nor  mean  enough,  I 
hope,  to  begrech  'em  one  good  meal." 

Miss  Bobbet  started  off,  and  after  she  had  got  out  of  sight, 
Josiah  whispered  to  me : 

"Can't  you  bring  forty  or  fifty  more  wimmen  up  here?  You 
couldn't  come  here  a  minute,  could  you,  without  a  lot  of  other 
wimmen  tight  to  your  heels?" 

It  seems  he  had  sot  down  on  that  bottle  of  rassberrv  Jell.    That 


160        WERNER'S  READINGS  AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  32. 

red  stripe  on  the  side  wasn't  hardly  finished,  as  I  said,  arid  I 
hadn't  fastened  my  thread  properly,  so  when  he  got  to  pullin'  at 
'em  to  try  to  wipe  off  the  jell,  the  thread  started,  and  bein'  sewed 
on  a  machine,  that  seam  jest  ripped  right  open  from  top  to  bot- 
tom. Wall,  I  pinned  'em  up  as  wall  as  I  could,  and  I  didn't  say 
a  word  to  hurt  his  feelin's,  only  I  jest  said  this  to  him: 

"Josiah  Allen,  is  this  pleasure?" 

"Throw  that  in  my  face  again,  will  you  ?  There  goes  a  pin  into 
my  leg!  I  should  think  I  had  suffered  enough  without  your 
stabbin'  of  me  with  pins." 

I  fixed  'em  as  wall  as  I  could,  but  they  looked  pretty  bad. 
Finally,  I  told  him  I  would  put  my  shawl  onto  him.  So  I  doubled 
it  up  corner-ways  as  big  as  I  could,  and  he  walked  back  to  the 
table  with  me.  So  he  told  the  company  he  always  loved  to  wear 
summer  shawls ;  he  thought  it  made  a  man  look  so  dressy. 

But  he  looke~3  as  if  he  would  sink  all  the  time  he  was  a-sayin' 
it.  He  was  sick  all  the  way  back  to  the  shore,  and  so  was  I.  And 
jest  as  we  got  into  our  wagons  and  started  for  home  the  rain 
began  to  pour  down.  The  wind  turned  our  old  umbrell  inside  out 
in  no  time.    I  says  to  Josiah  : 

"This  bonnet  and  dress  are  spilt,  Josiah  Allen,  and  I  shall  have 
to  buy  some  new  ones." 

"Wall !  wall !  who  said  you  wouldn't  ?"  he  snapped  out. 

And  there  we  jest  sot  and  suffered.  The  rain  poured  down; 
the  wind  howled  at  us ;  the  old  mare  went  slow ;  the  rheumatiz 
laid  holt  of  both  of  us ;  and  the  thought  of  the  new  bonnet  and 
dress  was  a-wearin'  on  Josiah,  I  knew.  I  did  speak  once,  as  he 
leaned  forward,  with  the  rain  drippin'  off  en  his  bandanna  hand- 
kerchief.    I  says  to  him  in  stern  tones : 

"Is  this  pleasure,  Josiah  Allen  ?" 

As  we  drove  up  to  our  doorstep,  and  as  he  helped  me  out  into 
a  mud  puddle,  I  says  to  him : 

"Mebby  you'll  hear  me  another  time,  Josiah  Allen." 

And  I'll  bet  he  will.  I  hain't  afraid  to  bet  a  ten-cent  bill  that 
that  man  won't  never  open  his  mouth  to  me  about  a  pleasure 
exertion  again. 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  S3.  161 


THAT  LITTLE  DOG. 


JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY. 


THAT  little  dog  'ud  scratch  at  that  door, 
And  go  on  a-whinin'  two  hours  before 
He'd  ever  let  up  !     There! — Jane,  let  him  in  ! 
( Ha,  there,  you  little  rat ! )     Look  at  him  grin ! 

Come  down  off  o'  that ! 

W'y,  look  at  him!     {Drat 
You!  you,  rascal,  you!)    Bring  me  that  hat ! 
Look  out!    He'll  snap  you!    He  wouldn't  let 
You  take  it  away  from  him,  now  you  kin  bet ! 
That  little  rascal's  jist  natchurly  mean. 
I  tell  you,  I  never  (git  out!)  never  seen 
A  spunkier  little  rip !     (Scratch  to  git  in, 
And  nozv  yer  a-scratchin'  to  git  out  agin ! 
Jane,  let  him  out ! )     Now,  watch  him  from  here 
Out  through  the  winder !     You  notice  one  ear 
Kindo'  inside^outj  like  he  holds  it?    Well, 
He's  got  a  tick  in  it — /  kin  tell ! 

Yes,  and  he's  cunnin' — 

Jist  watch  him  a-runnin' 
Sidelin' — see ! — like  he  ain't  "plum'd  true," 
And  legs  don't  "track"  as  they'd  ort  to  do ! 
Plowin'  his  nose  through  the  weeds — I  jing! 
Ain't  he  jist  cuter 'n  anything! 

W'y,  that  little  dog's  got  grozcn --people's  sense ! 
See  how  he  gits  out  under  the  fence: 
And  watch  him  a-whettin'  his  hind-legs  'fore 
His  dead  square  run  of  a  miled  er  more — 
'Cause  Noey's  a-comin',  and  Trip  alius  knows 
When  Noey's  a-comin' — and  off  he  goes ! 


162  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Puts  out  to  meet  him  and — there  they  come  now! 
Well,  sir !  it's  raially  singalar  how 

That  dog  kin  tell, — 

But  he  knows  as  well 
When  Noey's  a-comin'  home !    Reckon  his  smell 
'Ud  carry  two  miled  ?    You  needn't  to  smile — 
He  runs  to  meet  him,  ever'-once-'n-awhile, 
Two  miled  and  over — when  he's  slipped  away 
And  left  him  at  home  here,  as  he's  done  to-day — 
'Thout  ever  knowin'  where  Noey  wuz  goin'. 
But  that  little  dog  alius  hits  the  right  way ! 
Hear  him  a-whinin'  and  scratchin'  agin? 
{Little  Tormentiri  Hce!)    Jane,  let  him  in. 

You  say  he  ain't  there? 

Well,  now,  I  declare! 
Lem  me  limp  out  and  look !    .    .    .    I  wunder  where — 
Heuh,  Trip  ! — Heuh,  Trip ! — Heuh,  Trip !    .    .    .    There, 
There  he  is  !    Little  sneak!    What-a'-you-'bout? 
There  he  is — quilled  up  as  meek  as  a  mouse, 
His  tail  turnt  up  like  a  teakittle-spout, 
A-sunnin'  hisse'f  at  the  side  o'  the  house ! 
Next  time  you  scratch,  sir,  you'll  haf  to  git  in, 
My  fine  little  feller,  the  best  way  you  kin ! 
Noey  he  learns  him  sich  capers !    And  they — 
Both  of  'em's  ornrier  every  day ! 
Both  tantalizin'  and  meaner'n  sin — 
Alius  a — (listen  there!) — Jane,  let  him  in. 

O  !  yer  so  innocent !  hangin'  yer  head ! 
(Drat  ye!  you'd  better  git  under  the  bed!) 

Listen  at  that ! 

He's  tackled  the  cat ! 
Hah,  there !  you  little  rip !  come  out  o'  that ! 
Git  yer  blame  little  eyes  scratched  out 
'Fore  you  know  what  yer  talkin'  'bout  I 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  32.  163 

Here !  come  away  from  there  !     ( Let  him  alone — 

He'll  snap  you,  I  tell  ye,  as  quick  as  a  bone!) 

Hi,  Trip  !     Hey,  here  !    What-a'-you-'bout ! 

Oo !  ouch!     ('Li,  I'll  be  blamed!)     Blast  ye!    Git  out! 

.    .    .    O,  it  ain't  nothin' — jist  scratched  me,  you  see. 

Hadn't  no  idy  he'd  try  to  bite  me ! 

Plague  take  him  !     Bet  he'll  not  try  that  agin ! 

Hear  him  yelp — (poor  feller!)     Jane,  let  him  in. 


HE  WANTED  IVORY  SOAP. 


Humorous  Monologue  for  Man. 


CHARLES  BATTELL  LOOMIS. 


[Man  enters,  talking  excitedly. ] 

LOOK  wild,  do  I  ?  Well,  I  feel  wild.  I'm  on  my  way  to  the 
— what  do  you  call  him? — the  so-much-a-visit  man  to  find 
out  whether  it's  regular  paresis  or  only  inability  to  get  my  tongue 
on  the  right  word.  Been  coming  on  for  some  time.  First  noticed 
when  I  forgot  my  own  name  at  roll-call  in  the  armory.  Never 
could  remember  other  people's  names,  but  when  I  forgot  my  own, 
I  thought  it  was  getting  serious.  Easy  name  like  mine.  [Slaps 
forehead.']  By  jolly,  it's  gone  from  me  now!  Wait  a  minute. 
Don't  help  me.  Let  me  try  my  memory  system.  Great  thing. 
Helps  me  to  a  word  by  the  association  of  ideas.  My  name  has 
something  to  do  with  a  farm.  I  know  that.  Farm — -crops — grass 
— oh,  Hay.    Yes,  my  name  is  Hay,  but  I  can't  always  make  it. 

'Pon  my  word,  the  other  day  I  said  to  my  boy — there  his  name's 
gone  from  me.  It's  in  the  Bible.  Let  me  try  my  system.  Bible — 
Testament — Matthew — Mark — Luke — oh,  John!  I  said  to  John, 
"Put  a  shovelful  of  coal  in  the  oven."  Well,  I've  taught  him  to 
be  obedient,  and  he  rushed  down — there,  the  word's  gone  again. 
Something  to  do  with  Greece.  Greece — Greek  philosophy — Attic 
philosophy — attic — oh,  cellar  !  Isn't  it  a  great  system?  He  rushed 
down  cellar,  and  the  next  thing  I  knew  there  was  an  outcry  from 


164  WERNER'S  READINGS 

the  kitchen,  and  the  cook  came  in  to  Mrs.  Hay  and  said :  "John's 
been  after  spoilin'  the  roast  chicken,  throwin'  coal  over  it."  You 
see,  I  meant  furnace,  but  I  said  "oven,"  and  that's  where  he  put 
the  coal. 

But  the  thing  that  made  me  decide  to  go  and  see  the — er — what 
is  it  you  say  on  your  buttons  when  you're  a  boy? — Don't  you 
know? — er — "Rich  man,  poor  man,  beggar  man,  thief,  doctor" — 
ah,  doctor.  The  reason  I  went  to  see  the  doctor  was  because  the 
other  day  Mrs.  Hay  told  me  to  go  to  a  department  store  and  buy 
her  a — now  wait.  Let  me  use  my  system.  Pudding — pie — cake. 
Buy  her  a  half-dozen — er — pianos — piano  keys — Ivory  Soap.  A 
half-dozen  cakes  of  Ivory  Soap.  [Writes  it  on  cuff.]  She  wanted 
me  to  write  it  down  then;  but  I  said  I  guessed  my  brains  would 
hold  a  half-dozen  cakes  of  Ivory  Soap,  and  she  said  she  guessed 
that's  what  was  in  my  head  instead  of  brains — you  know  the  way 
a  wife  of  long  standing  will  talk  to  a  fellow. 

Well,  I  went  down  to  the  store,  thinking  of  half  a  dozen  ways 
of  remembering — [consults  cuff] — Ivory  Soap,but  I  was  too  proud 
to  write  it  out — then.  I  joined  the  mob  of  women — it  was  Mon- 
day,  and  they  were  all  in  a  hurry  to  buy  bargains  in  linen,  al- 
though I'd  rather  have  a  bargain  in  wrapping-paper.  I  consulted 
the  first  floor-walker  who  wasn't  surrounded  by  inquiring  women, 
and  I  said,  "I  want  to  get  some — er — something  that  floats " 

"Ships,"  said  he.     "Toy  department  in  the  basement." 

"No,  no,"  I  said;  "not  that.     Life-preservers " 

"Oh,  life-preservers ;  they're  in  the  sporting-goods  department — * 
fourth  floor." 

I  left  him  in  disgust  and  tried  another.  I  didn't  want  life- 
preservers,  but  I  was  getting  to — [consults  cuff] — Ivory  Soap  by 
memory  system.  I  said  to  the  next  one,  "I  want  to  buy  six 
cakes — — " 

"Bakery  department,  sixth  floor." 

"No,  no.     It's  something  that's  in  cakes — ■ — " 


"Carraway  seeds — grocery  department,  same  floor." 

"No,  no.    They're  white  cakes " 

"Angel  food,  same  floor." 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  S2.                             165 
"Hold  on,"  said  I.    "They're  made  of  pure  vegetable  oil " 


"Oil  doesn't  come  in  cakes;  comes  in  bottles/'  said  he  pitingly. 
"Same  floor." 

"Wait  a  minute  and  give  me  a  chance.  Let's  forget  they're 
cakes,"  said  I. 

"That  won't  be  hard  for  you,"  said  he,  but  I  didn't  deign  to 
notice  the  insinuation.  I  began  on  a  new  tack.  "Why,  this  thing 
is  advertised  everywhere " 

"Oh,  why  didn't  you  say  so  before?  That's — breakfast  food; 
same  department." 

I  shook  my  head,  and,  summoning  all  my  wits,  I  remembered 
all  I  had  ever  read  about — [consults  cuff] — Ivory  Soap,  although 
I  couldn't  remember  its  name.  I  said,  "Say,  this  thing  floats  by 
the  baby  in  the  tub,  and  you  can't  lose  it " 

"What,  the  baby?"  said  he. 

"No,  no,  the  cake.    It  restores  blankets  to  their " 

"Owners?"  said  he. 

"To  their  pristine  freshness;  makes  embroidery  look  like 

"Thirty  cents?" 

"No,  sir,"  said  I.  "You  never  saw  embroidery  treated  by  a  cake 
of  it,  or  you  wouldn't  say  that  even  in  a  joke.  Why,  it  comes  in 
kitchen  size " 

"Harlem  or  suburban?"  said  he. 
/Itried  another  tack.    "Surgeons  use  it  with  great  advantage — " 

"Surgical  goods — seventh  floor,"  said  he,  trying  to  walk  away, 
but  I  grabbed  his  wrist,  determined  to  make  him  understand. 

"It's  good  for  the  skin  and " 

"The  bunco-steerer?" 

"And  the  complexion,"  said  I  with  dignity.  "It  comes  in  •  a 
black-and-white  wrapper " 

"You're  sure  it  isn't  a  Mother  Hubbard?  Underwear  depart- 
ment, second  floor."  And  then  I  saw  he  was  making  fun  of  me, 
and  so  I  left  him. 

I  soon  came  across  another  floor-walker  who  put  up  his  hand 
to  his  ear  as  soon  as  he  saw  me  opening  my  mouth  to  speak,  and 
I  realized  that  he  was  deaf.    Imagine  a  deaf  floor-walker ! 


166  WERNER'S  READINGS 

But  to  my  joy  one  of  the  words  I  wanted  came  to  me,  and  I 
said  quickly,  "I  want  to  know  where  I  can  get  soap." 

"What's  that?" 

"Can — I — get — soap — here  ?" 

"Can  of  what  soup?" 

"Not  soup.     Soap." 

"All  the  soups  are  in  the  grocery  department,  but  I  don't  think 
they  carry  that  brand." 

"Brand  nothing.    I  want  soap." 

"Oh,  you  want  to  eat.    Restaurant,  top  floor." 

"Eat  nothing.    I  want  soap." 

He  shook  his  head  and  said  to  another  floor-walker  who  came 
up  just  then,  "No  use,  Jackson.  I'll  have  to  see  an  aurist.  Deaf 
as  a  post.    You  find  out  what  this  gentleman  wants." 

But  by  that  time  I  had  lost  my  temper,  and  I  said  to  the  latest 
floor -walker,  "Oh,  you  wouldn't  know  what  I  want.  It's  only  in 
every  magazine  in  the  world." 

"Is  it  gunpowder?"  said  he  in  a  pacific  tone  of  voice. 

"If  it  was  gunpowder,  I'd  get  it  and  blow  this  place  to  smither- 
eens. Making  me  lose  valuable  time  just  because  there's  no  one 
here  with  brains  enough  to  guess  what  I  want,  although  I've  de- 
scribed its  qualities  over  and  over  again.  It's  what  no  house-wife 
should  be  without." 

"Why,  my  dear  friend,"  said  he,  "there  are  fifty  things  in  the 
grocery  department  that  sell  at  that  catch-line.  You'd  better  take 
the  store  aisle  by  aisle — there's  only  240  miles  of  aisles — and  keep 
your  eyes  peeled;  and,  when  you  see  what  you  are  looking  for, 
put  your  hand  on  it  and  ask  for  it." 

And  then  I  had  a  brilliant  idea.  It  struck  me,  that  if  I  could 
get  to  the — er — market — drug  on  the  market — drug  department, 
I'd  be  likely  to  see  some  of  the  cakes ;  but  I  couldn't  think  of  the 
name  of  the  department,  and  so  I  wandered  aimlessly  about  for 
half  an  hour  on  various  floors,  and  at  last  I  came  to  the  playing- 
card  counter,  where  they  have  counters  of  ivory — I  mean  wooden 
counters,  but  the  counters  they  sell  are  ivory ;  and  as  soon  as  I  saw 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  32.  167 

the  ivory  I  gave  a  whoop  and  jumped  up  and  down  and  shouted 
at  the  top  of  my  lungs : 

"I  want  Ivory  Soap !    I  want  Ivory  Soap !    I  want  Ivory  Soap !" 

In  a  minute  a  detective  had  seized  me  and  was  leading  me 
struggling  to  the  street,  for  he'd  thought  I'd  gone  mad ;  but,  on  the 
way  out,  I  happened  to  pass  the  very  place  where  I'd  been  stand- 
ing talking  to  that  "funny"  floor-walker,  and  I  said  to  the  detec- 
tive, "It's  all  right;  I'm  not  mad;  there  it  is!"  Then  I  stepped 
to  a  clerk  standing  behind  a  pyramid  of  the — [consults  cuff]  — 
Ivory  Soap — and  said :  "Send  six  cakes  of  this  soap  to  my  house, 
C.  O.  D." 

And  then  I  left  the  store  in  a  hurry,  although  I  thought  I  heard 
someone  calling;  and  it  wasn't  until  my  wife  asked  me  for  the 
soap  that  evening  that  I'd  remembered  that  I'd  forgotten — remem- 
bered I'd  forgotten  to  give  them  my  name  and  address,  so,  of 
course,  I  didn't  get  the  soap,  after  all ! 

So  now  I'm  going  to  see  the — er — doctor  and  get  him  to  fix 
up  my  brain ;  for  while  there's  life  there's — soap — I  mean,  hope. 

But  I  believe  I'm  the  only  man  in  the  United  States  who  could 
ever  forget  the  name  of  such  a  useful  commodity  as — [consults 
cuff] — Ivory  Soap. 


A  BESETTING  SIN. 

[as  confessed  by  a  youthful  penitent.] 


EDMUND  VANCE  COOKE. 


I    SHAN'T  be  bad  no  more,  I  shan't.    I'm  goan  to  be  reel  good; 
I  heard  a  preacher-man  an'  he  said  ever'body  could, 
Ef  they  jus'  kep'  a-tryin'  an'  a-tryin',  day  b'  day, 
An'  ef  they  didn't  try  they'd  go — some  place  I  mustn't  say, 
Er  mother  says  I  mustn't,  'nd  so,  o'  course,  I  shan't; 
Don't  see  why  preachers  says  it,  ef  another  feller  can't! 
But  I'm  a-goan  to  be  reel  good.    I  shan't  pull  pussy's  tail, 
Ner  tie  our  nice,  old  Nodie  to  a  nasty,  old  tin  pail, 


168  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Like  I  did  once  when  Tommy  Johnson  said  I  didn't  dast: 
I'd  like  to  fix  that  feller,  but  my  fightin'  days  is  past ! 
I  shan't  git  mad  when  baby  sucks  the  paint  off  all  my  blocks, 
Ner  spend  the  cent  pa  gives  me  fer  the  missionary-box. 
I'm  goan  to  be  a  martire,  an'  I  shan't  be  bad  one  speck ; 
Ain't  even  goan  to  cry  when  mother  makes  me  wash  my  neck. 

Most  martire  fellers  wasn't  much.     Why,  any  circus  man'll 
Guff  them  lions  'round  an'  do  it  just  as  slick  as  Dan'l. 
Aunt  Becky  thinks  it's  somethin'  great  to  live  in  sacks  'nd  ashes. 
/  think  that's  fun  !    An'  hair-cloth  shirts  !  I  bet  they  got  the  rashes 
'Nd  wear  them  skirts, to  scratch  'em!    Of  course,  that  Jony  feller 
Inside  that  big,  old  whale,  all  dark  like  down-in-our-cellar, 
He  had  a  heap  o'  spunk,  he  had;  but  I  tol'  Aunty  Beck 
He  didn't  alius  have  to  go  an'  wash  his  dog-gone  neck. 

That's  goan  to  be  the  worstest  thing,  an'  orful  hard,  I  know, 
But  I'm  dissolved  to  do  it !  ef  I  do  hate  it  so. 
It's  funny  hatey  things  is  good,  but  I  suppose  it's  true, 
An'  things  you  like  is  mostly  things  you  hadn't  ought  to  do. 
An'  water's  cold,  er  ef  it's  hot,  it's  het  so  much  it's  scaldy; 
An'  'sides,  it  wets  yer  collar  all  around  yer  Garrybaldy, 
An'  runs  all  down  yer  back  an'  then  the  soap  gits  in  yer  eyes, 
Because  the  towel  ain't  where  it  was — an'  then  sometimes  I  cries. 
But  I  shan't  cry  no  more,  though  p'r'aps  I'll  want  to,  I  expec', 
But  when  I'm  growed,  I  ain't  a-goan  to  never  wash  my  neck ! 

.But  now  I'm  goan  to  do  it,  till  I'm  old  enough,  at  last, 

To  know  what  things  I  dassen't  do,  an'  other  things  I  dast. 

An'  ef  I  have  a  little  boy,  as  course  I  will,  I  'spec', 

I  bet  you  forty  dollars  that  I'll  make  him  wash  his  neck! 


"I  want  to  be  an  Angel," 

Sung  the  choir,  sweetly  solemn; 
An  editor  in  the  audience  said, 

"Put  an  ad  in  our  want  column." 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  32.  169 


THE  ANGEL  CHILD. 


Humorous  Monologue  for  Woman. 


DOROTHY  DIX. 


Characters:  Mother,  speaker  present;  her  son,  The  Angel  Child; 
Mrs.  Smith,  an  invalid,  supposed  to  be  present. 

Scene:  Mrs.  Smith  is  supposed  to  be  seated  in  rocking-chair  near  stage 
center.  Sofa  L.,  near  stage  front.  Near  sofa  music-box  on  table. 
Rug  on  floor,  book  of  etchings  on  center-table. 

[Enter  zvith  animation,  holding  Angel  Child  by  hand,  let- 
ting him  go  just  as  you  reach  Mrs.  Smith.] 

OH,  good  morning,  Mrs.  Smith.  I  heard  that  you  were  sick 
and  nervous  and  I  just  thought  that  I  would  run  in  and 
bring  my  little  Willie  to  see  you,  for  nothing  does  a  person  as 
much  good  when  they  are  feeling  bad  as  to  have  something  that 
takes  their  mind  off  of  themselves  and  cheers  them  up.  That's 
what  I  always  say  to  Mr.  Brown.  This  morning  at  breakfast  I 
said  to  him :  "John,"  said  I,  "I  hear  that  Mrs.  Smith  has  nervous 
prostration,  and  I  am  going  to  take  Willie  and  go  over  to  see  her. 
It  will  do  her  good  just  to  have  that  angel  child  around." 

Willie,  quit  drumming  with  your  heels  against  that  sofa.  Do 
you  hear  me?  You  are  making  such  a  noise  I  can't  hear  myself 
speak.  Of  course,  I  don't  believe  in  people  ordinarily  taking  their 
children  with  them. 

Goodness  gracious,  I'll  never  forget  the  time  that  Mrs.  Smyser 
brought  that  horrid  little  Carrie  of  hers  when  she  came  to  see  me. 
I  thought  the  little  imp  would  run  me  crazy.  She  is  just  into 
everything 

Willie,  quit  prying  into  that  music-box.  You  want  to  see  the 
wheels  go  around  and  what  makes  the  music  come  out  of  it  ?  Oh, 
well,  I  daresay  you  won't  hurt  it,  and  the  dear  child  is  so  ingen- 
ious.   Most  children  are  so  uninteresting — just  grubby,  little  stupid 


170  WERNER'S  READINGS 

things,  but  Willie  is  so  different.  He  says  the  cutest  things.  Real 
witty 

What's  that  you  are  saying,  Willie?  That  you  see  a  bald  place 
in  the  carpet,  and  that  they  have  put  a  chair  over  it  ?  Tee-hee ! 
Isn't  that  cute — just  think  of  his  being  sharp  enough  to  notice 
such  things !  Sometimes  I  get  real  uneasy  about  him.  I  am 
afraid  his  brain  is  developing  too  fast. 

But  you  wouldn't  believe,  Mrs.  Smith,  unless  I  told  you,  the 
prejudice  that  the  neighbors  have  got  against  that  child.  They 
are  always  complaining  of  him  to  the  janitor,  and  one  woman 
actually  went  to  the  agent  and  threatened  to  give  up  her  lease,  and 
all  for  nothing  in  the  world  but  because  Willie  had  made  a  to- 
boggan-slide by  rubbing  soap  on  the  steps.  Of  course,  I  know 
it's  envy  and  jealousy,  because  their  children  haven't  got  his  in- 
telligence, for  if  there  ever  was  an  amiable,  quiet,  innocent  little 
creature 

Willie,  quit  making  th'at  horrid  noise.  It  sets  my  nerves  on 
edge,  and  Mrs.  Smith  is  sick.  You  can't  do  anything?  Oh,  well, 
go  on  then;  we  can  hear  each  other  if  we  talk  a  little  louder. 
But,  as  I  was  saying,  Willie  is  the  best  child,  and  never  does 
anything  the  least  wrong  unless  he  is  led  into  it  by  some  bad 
boy.  Why,  he's  got  as  many  resources  in  himself  as  a  grown 
person.  Just  look  at  him  now.  Just  as  happy  and  contented  as 
he  can  be  making  finger-prints  on  the  windows  and  blowing  on 
the  glass  to  see  if  he  can  make  pictures. 

And  he's  such  a  lover  of  art,  too.  Seems  to  know  just  what  is 
the  best.  You  can  see  that  by  the  way  he  seized  at  once  on  that 
book  of  fine  etchings  you  have.  Some  people  don't  like  for  chil- 
dren to  handle  their  rare  books,  because  they  get  them  dirty,  but 
I  always  say  that  Willie's  finger-prints  are  just  as  valuable  as  the 
artist's  signature — maybe  more  so. 

I  guess  a  picture  with  the  imprint  of  George  Washington's 
fingers  when  he  was  a  little  boy,  or  Napoleon's,  or  any  of  those 
big  fellows,  would  fetch  a  pretty  penny  if  you  had  it  now,  and 
Willie  may  be  more  famous  than  any  of  them,  for  he  is  so  tal- 
ented, and 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  32.  171 

Yes,  yes,  Willie,  I  see.  The  booful  lady  in  the  chair  is  the 
Madonna  del — yes,  I  see  where  you  have  torn  the  picture.  Oh, 
well,  it  doesn't  matter,  and  you  mustn't  do  it  again.  Really,  I  am 
afraid  we  must  go 

What's  that  you  say,  Willie?  Look  how  nicely  you  have  writ- 
ten your  name?  And  you  hadn't  anything  but  a  pin,  either,  and 
you  scratched  it  with  that  on  the  mahogany  table?  I  declare  it's 
just  wonderful  how  quickly  he's  learned  to  write. 

That  "Willie"  is  just  as  plain  as  anything,  isn't  it,  Mrs.  Smith? 
Good-bye,  good-bye;  I'll  come  in  again  and  bring  Willie  in  a  few 
days.  I  know  how  it  must  cheer  you  up;  and,  as  I  always  say 
to  Mr.  Brown,  what  I  think  about  it  is  this — that  anybody  that's 
got  such  a  child  as  Willie  ought  not  to  be  selfish  enough  to  keep 
him  to  themselves.  They  ought  to  sort  of  divide  him  out  with 
other  people 

Come  on,  Willie,  and  quit  kicking  my  shins — it  hurts.  Oh,  well, 
if  it  amuses  you .     [Exits. 1 


MR.  DOOLEY  ON  A  NIGHT  IN  THE  COUNTRY. 


FINLEY  P.  DUNNE. 


IWANST  spint  a  night  in  th'  counthry.  'Twas  whin  Hogan 
had  his  villa  out  near  th'  river.  'Twas  called  a  villa  to  dis- 
tinguish it  fr'm  a  house.  If  'twas  a  little  bigger  't  wud  be  big 
enough  f'r  th'  hens,  an'  if  'twas  a  little  smaller  't  wud  be  small 
enough  f'r  a  dog.  It  looked  as  if  'twas  made  with  a  scroll  saw, 
but  Hogan  mannyfacthered  it  himsilf  out  iv  a  design  in  th'  pa- 
aper.  "How  to  make  a  counthry  home  on  wan  thousan'  dollars. 
Puzzle:  find  th'  money."  Hogan  kidnaped  me  wan  afthernoon 
an'  took  me  out  there  in  time  to  go  to  bed.  He  boosted  me 
up  a  laddher  into  a  bedroom  adjinin'  th'  roof.  "I  hope,"  says  I, 
'T'm  not  discommodin'  th'  pigeons."  "There  ain't  anny  pigeons 
here,"  says  he.  "What's  that?"  says  I.  "That's  a  mosquito," 
says  he.  "I  thought  ye  didn't  have  anny  here,"  says  I.  "  'Tis  th' 
first  wan  I've  seen,"  says  he,  whackin'  himsilf  on  th'  back  iv  th' 


172  WERNER'S  READINGS 

neck.  "I  got  ye  that  time,  assassin,"  he  says,  hurlin'  th'  remains 
to  th'  ground.  "They  on'y  come,"  he  says,  "afther  a  heavy  rain 
or  a  heavy  dhry  spell,"  he  says,  "or  whin  they'se  a  little  rain," 
he  says,  "followed  be  some  dhryness,"  he  says.  "Ye  mustn't  mind 
thim,"  he  says.  "A  mosquito  on'y  lives  f  r  a  day,"  he  says.  "  Tis 
a  short  life  an'  a  merry  wan,"  says  I.  "Do  they  die  iv  indi- 
gisthion?"  I  says.  So  he  fell  down  through  th'  thrap-dure  an' 
left  me  alone. 

Well,  I  said  me  prayers  an'  got  into  bed  an'  lay  there,  thinkin' 
iv  me  past  life  an'  wonderin'  if  th'  house  was  on  fire.  'Twas 
warrum.  I'll  not  deny  it.  Th'  roof  was  near  enough  to  me  that 
I  cud  smell  th'  shingles,  an'  th'  sun  had  been  rollin'  on  it  all  day 
long,  an'  though  it  had  gone  away,  it'd  left  a  ray  or  two  to  keep 
th'  place. 

But  I'm  a  survivor  iv  th'  gr-reat  Chicago  fire,  an'  I  often  go 
down  to  th'  rollin'-mills,  an'  besides,  mind  ye,  I'm  iv  that  turn  iv 
mind  that  whin  'tis  hot  I  say  'tis  hot,  an'  lave  it  go  at  that.  So 
I  whispers  to  mesilf,  "I'll  dhrop  off,"  I  says,  "into  a  peaceful 
slumber,"  I  says,  "like  th'  healthy  plowboy  that  I  am,"  says  I. 
An'  I  counted  as  far  as  I  knew  how,  an'  I'd  just  begun  f'r  to 
wondher  how  th'  las'  thing  I  thought  iv  came  into  me  head,  whin 
a  dog  started  to  howl  in  th'  yard.  They  was  a  frind  iv  this 
dog  in  th'  nex'  house  that  answered  him,  an'  they  had  a  long 
chat.     Some  other  dogs  butted  in  to  be  companionable. 

I  heerd  Hogan  rollin'  in  bed,  an'  thin  I  heerd  him  goin'  out  to 
get  a  dhrink  iv  wather.  He  thripped  over  a  chair  befure  he 
lighted  a  match  to  look  at  th'  clock.  It  seemed  like  an  hour  befure 
he  got  back  to  bed.  Be  this  time  th'  dogs  was  tired  an'  I  was 
thinkin'  I'd  take  a  nap,  whin  a  bunch  iv  crickets  undher  me  win- 
dows begun  f'r  to  discoorse.  I've  heerd  iv  th'  crickets  on  th' 
hearth,  an'  I  used  to  think  they  were  all  th'  money,  but  anny 
time  they  get  on  me  hearth  I  buy  me  a  pound  iv  insect-powdher. 
I'd  rather  have  a  pianola  on  th'  hearth  anny  day,  an'  Gawd  save 
me  fr'm  that ! 

An'  so  'twas  dogs  an'  mosquitoes,  an'  crickets  an'  mosquitoes, 
so  that  whin  th'  sun  bounced  up  an'  punched  me  in  th'  eye  at 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  32.  '  173 

four  I  knew  what  th'  thruth  is,  that  th'  counthry  is  th'  noisiest 
place  in  th'  wurruld.  Mind  ye,  there's  a  roar  in  th'  city,  but  in 
th'  counthry  th'  noises  beats  on  ye'er  ear  like  carpet-tacks  bein' 
dhriven  into  th'  dhrum.  Between  th'  chirp  iv  a  cricket  an'  th' 
chirp  iv  th'  hammer  at  th'  mills  I'll  take  th'  hammer.  I  can  go  to 
slape  in  a  boiler-shop,  but  I  spint  th'  rest  iv  that  night  settin'  in 
th'  bathtub. 


JOHN'S  PAJAMAS. 


STANLEY  SCHELL. 


Scene:    Sewing-Room.    Lady  seated  on  floor  surrounded  by  all  sorts  of 
old  dresses  and  odds  and  ends  of  ribbon,  etc. 

WOMEN  are  queer  creatures  [looks  up  from  sorting  over 
odds  and  ends  of  millinery],  and  yet  we  are  not  wholly 
unreasonable.  [vS7o7?.y.]  Before  I  married,  I  cherished  high  ideals 
of  masculine  nature.  I  thought  men  vastly  superior  to  details — 
big-minded;  never  put  out  of  temper  by  little  things,  and  so  on. 
Well  [laughs,  with  quiver  in  voice],  I've  lived  to  learn  that  a 
man  can  be  petty  enough  to  disturb  a  household,  to  lose  his  self- 
control,  to  wound  the  feelings  of  a  true,  loving  wife,  simply  be- 
cause his  pajamas  were  hung,  two  nights  in  succession,  in  different 
places.  [Sobs  with  all  her  might.]  You  mustn't  laugh  at  me — 
it  isn't  a  bit  funny !  You  see,  John  is  very  careless,  and  I  thought 
I'd  reform  him.  Why,  he  even  hangs  his  best  neckties  on  the 
gas-fixtures,  puts  his  sponge  on  the  mahogany  table  where  it  drips 
and  drips  all  over  the  floor,  lays  his  shaving-tools  on  the  embroid- 
ered bureau-scarf,  and  tumbles  his  top  bureau  drawer  into  an 
awful  mess.  I  could  have  stood  all  this,  but  he  insisted  on  hang- 
ing his  pajamas  on  the  dressing-room  door  in  plain  sight  of  every- 
one, and  when  the  wind  caught  them  they  waved  like  a  flag  in 
the  air!  [Confidentially.]  I  determined  to  break  up  all  such 
habits.  I  found  out  that  calling  attention  to  them  only  caused 
him  to  make  sarcastic  remarks,  so  I  engaged  a  decorator  to  do 
over  John's  room  in  dainty  chintz  and  frilled  muslin  curtains.    His 


174  WERNER'S  READINGS 

whole  dressing-room  was  transformed  into  a  bower.  I  hung  a 
lovely  cabinet  and  put  hisshaving-tools  there.  I  supplied  lacquered 
boxes  for  his  gloves,  ties,  handkerchiefs,  etc.  I  put  all  his  shoes 
into  a  window-seat  box  draped  in  chintz,  hung  his  pajamas  on  a 
special  hook  in  his  closet,  and  when  I  was  finished  that  room  was 
a  dream. 

A  telegram  was  handed  me  just  as  I  was  going  downstairs : 
"Mother  is  very  ill.  Come  at  once."  I  scratched  off  a  note,  and 
left  it  where  John  would  be  sure  to  get  it.  I  stayed  away  three 
days  and  in  that  time  had  ten  telegrams  of  the  strangest  nature 
from  John.    They  were  all  inquiries  about  his  clothes. 

That  room,  that  dear  little  bower !  I  wish  you  could  have  seen 
it !  I  simply  sat  down  and  cried  until  John  arrived ;  and,  instead 
of  taking  me  into  his  arms,  he  stood  at  the  door  surveying  me 
and  the  debris  with  a  grim  expression.  In  frozen  tones  he  inquired 
if  I  would  kindly  tell  him  what  I  had  done  with  his  razor  and 
strop.  Why  I  had  locked  his  neckties  and  pocket  handkerchiefs 
away  in  those  devilish  boxes,  and  what  I  meant  by  robbing  him 
of  his  shoes  and  hiding  his  nightgown. 

I  put  them  in  order,  I  told  him.  But  he  shouted  at  me,  "They 
were  simply  in  apple-pie  order,  madam !  Why,  I  knew  just  where 
I  could  lay  my  hand  on  everything  I  wanted." 

It  seems  he  had  come  home  shortly  after  I  was  gone.  He  had 
been  appointed  pall-bearer  at  a  friend's  funeral  and  all  he  could 
find  was  a  striped  sweater,  a  pair  of  tennis  shoes,  and  a  boyish 
cap.  He  had  to  send  word  he  was  desperately  ill;  and,  because 
he  couldn't  find  his  shaving-tools,  he  shaved  two  days  with  a 
paint-brush  and  a  case-knife. 

I  gave  him  back  all  his  things,  turning  them  out  of  the  boxes 
and  cabinet,  and  I  don't  ever  intend  to  disturb  his  things  again. 
I've  told  the  maid  never  to  clean  that  dressing-room.  Whenever 
I  dust  it,  I  lift  up  an  article  with  one  hand  and  dust  with  the 
other,  then  carefully  replace  the  article  where  I  found  it.  On 
chairs,  table,  bureau,  and  rack  are  shirts,  ties,'  gloves,  shoes,  and 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  22.  175 

pajamas;  and  the  other  day  he  had  them  hanging  out  the  front 
window.  I've  learned  my  lesson,  but  I  wished  I  had  never  given 
a  man  the  opportunity  to  teach  me  that  lesson.  Neatness  and 
busy  people  never  go  together.  John  says,  "It's  only  idle  folks 
that  are  neat."  John's  pajamas  taught  me  a  lesson  that  I  shall 
never  forget.    Hands  off! 


AUTHOR'S  READING  IN  SIMPKINVILLE. 


RUTH  McENERY  STUART. 


YES,  it  was  the  highest-class  show  we've  ever  had  in  Simp- 
kinville,  this  here  author's  readin'  las'  night,  but  I  was  a 
leetle  bit  disapp'inted  in  it  ez  a  show. 

Of  course,  when  I  heard  that  we  was  goin'  to  have  a  book  read 
out  to  us  from  the  platform  by  the  one  that  made  it  up  out  of 
her  head,  why,  I  nachelly  looked  for  everything  to  be  acted  out. 
Time  Jim  Bradshaw  done  this  same  lady  writer's  piece  about  the 
chanticleer,  now,  when  the  boys  was  pleggin'  'im  beforehand,  he 
told  'em  he'd  guarantee  that  when  it  come  to  the  chanticleer  part, 
they  could  hear  him  chant  clear  over  to  the  co't-house.  An  they 
did.  They's  some  fun  in  goin'  to  a  show  like  that,  an',  of  co'se, 
when  I  heard  that  this  lady  authoress  was  comin'  to  give  a  readin' 
with  tickets  to  be  paid  for  most  extravagant,  why,  I  put  out  my 
money  thess  ez  much  to  see  her  step  out  on  the  stage  an'  crow 
ez  anything  else.  But  she  thess  read  along  all  through  the  ex- 
citement thess  ez  composed  ez  I  would  'a'  done  for  the  home 
folks ;  ca'mer,  for  that  matter,  for  the  very  words  an'  the  ricollec- 
tion  o'  Jim's  performance  would  'a'  tempted  me  to  some  sort  o' 
effort.  Not  that  I'd  'a'  perched  on  the  chair-back  an'  stepped  like 
a  shanghai  the  way  he  done ;  but  I'd  'a'  crowed  some  or  died. 

An'  then  when  it  come  to  the  co'tin'  scene,  well,  to  me,  it  was 
purty  flat.  She  even  refused  to  allow  the  lamps  to  be  turned  down ; 
said  she  was  afeared  she'd  lose  the  spirit  of  it  while  the  young 
man  tiptoed  round  an'  turned  'em  down. 

No,  her  policy  was  the  direc'  opposite  to  what  I  looked  for, 


175  WERNER'S  READINGS 

firs'  to  last.  'Stid  o'  makin'  gestures  an'  callin'  attention  to  the 
stage,  f  instance,  seem  like  she  tried  to  th'ow  us  off  the  track, 
constant.  Why,  sir,  when  she  sort  o'  dropped  her  voice  an'  car- 
ried it  along  even,  the  way  she  done  in  that  bean-arbor  part,  I 
seemed  to  forgit  all  about  her  a-standin'  there,  an'  I  could  see  the 
arbor  an'  the  seat  under  it,  an'  the  white  patches  o'  moonlight 
with  black  shadders  between  'em,  all  more  or  less  the  shape  o' 
bean-leaves  the  way  I've  so  often  noticed  'em.  Why,  it  even 
brought  back  to  my  mind  a'  ol'  flowered  muslin-de-laine  dress  She 
used  to  wear  them  days,  with  chiny  asters  on  it  an'  blue  ribbon 
bow-knots.  I'd  'a'  paid  my  entrance  fee  gladly  thess  to  git  back 
that  dress-pattern.  But  for  a  pay  performance  I  can't  say  ez  I 
think  it  was  exactly  fair — not  to  the  rest  of  the  audience  thet 
likely  didn't  git  started  on  that  track. 

Of  co'se,  I  was  mighty  glad  to  see  the  lady  an'  realize  thet 
I  was  face  to  face  with  a  genuwine  book-factory,  femi-nine 
gender. 

I  don't  know,  though,  ez  I'd  'a'  s'picioned  her  ez  a  writer  ef 
I's  met  her  on  the  road.  She  ain't  so  opposite  to  the  common  run. 
I  can't  say  thet  I  expected  anything  in  p'tic'lar  out  o'  the  way, 
neither,  but  I  sort  o'  ca'culated  thet  they'd  be  somethin'  thet'd 
make  a  person  look  at  her  twice-t  an'  wonder  what  the  trouble 
was. 

She  stayed  at  Sally  Ann's,  an'  Mary  Elizabeth  she  sent  over 
her  silver  bresh  an'  comb  thet  she  got  for  her  weddin'  for  Sally 
Ann  to  lay  on  the  bureau  for  her.  An'  the  Trimbles  they  sent 
over  one  o'  their  swingin'  ice-pitchers;  an'  the  other  one  they  set 
on  the  table  beside  her  on  the  platform  at  the  readin'  with  Tomp- 
kins's little  nigger,  Montague,  waitin'  behind  the  big  pa'm,  ready 
to  tilt  it  for  her  ef  she  turned  thet  way  or  claired  her  th'oat.  He's 
a  mighty  smart  little  darky,  Montague  is,  an'  when  the  evenin' 
had  wo'e  on  consider'bk.  an'  looked  like  she  wasn't  never  goin' 
to  make  no  motion,  why,  he  stepped  up  in  one  o'  the  pauses,  an' 
tilted  out  a  gobletful,  an'  set  it  by  her.  An'  then  he  made  a 
second  trip,  an'  fetched  the  polar-bear  slop-bowl  an'  put  it  beside 
the  goblet.     An'  I  was  tickled  to  see  him  do  it.     She  mightn't 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  32.  177 

never  come  this  way  ag'in,  an'  like  ez  not  she'd  heerd  it  was  a 
howlin'  wilderness. 

Sally  Ann  says  she  seemed  purty  tired  when  she  got  home  las' 
night  after  the  readin',  although  she  ain't  done  a  stroke  o'  work 
sence  she  come.  Even  ef  she'd  fetched  a  little  crochet  or  knittin' 
along  with  her,  she  ain't  had  no  chance  to  do  it.  Them  reporters 
thet  come  down  from  the  towns  around  they  took  her  by  turns 
soon  ez  she  come,  an'  when  she  had  thess  got  into  her  nigh'gownd 
to  lay  down  an'  collect  her  thoughts,  why,  the  girls  thet  had  the 
'rangement  o'  the  platform  they  called  to  see  her,  an'  she  had  to 
git  up  an'  dress,  an'  time  they  went,  in  come  Joe  Leggett  to  talk 
over  how  he  was  to  introduce  her.  I  cert'n'y  was  proud  when  I 
see  what  a  flow  o'  language  Joe's  got.  Why,  he  spoke  sixteen 
minutes  by  my  watch,  an'  he  never  faltered.  He's  a  graceful  man, 
Joe  is,  an'  a  powerful  lawyer.  When  I  pay  my  dollar,  though, 
I'd  ruther  listen  to  the  paid  performer  an'  take  Joe  on  a'  off  day. 

How  long  was  the  readin'?  Oh,  I  should  say  maybe  a'  hour 
or  a  little  over ;  that  is,  the  readin ',  mind  you.  The  shozv,  it  lasted 
three  mortal  hours.  Of  co'se,  I  think  native  talent  ought  to  be 
encouraged,  an'  yet,  when  Anna  Larkin  had  played  "The  Maiden's 
Prayer,"  an'  done  it  perfec',  I  didn't  see  no  p'tie'lar  use  in  clappin' 
'er  out  ag'in  an'  makin'  'er  do  it  over.  It  was  nine  minutes  past 
eleven  when  Polly  Johnson  give  her  last  encore.  Sally  Ann  says 
the  author  lady  seemed  to  be  real  wo'e  out  when  she  come  home, 
an'  she  didn't  see  why.  She  didn't  do  a  thing  but  set  on  the  plat- 
form an'  rest!  Sally  Ann  says  she'd  like  to  see  a  person  like  that 
tackle  a  week's  wash. 

She  laid  abed  late  this  mornin'.  Sally  Ann  waited  breakfast 
tell  nearly  nine  o'clock,  an'  then  she  sent  it  in  to  her.  But  she 
didn't  mind  that  so  much  ez  she  did  disapp'intin'  the  school- 
chil'ren.  A  dozen  or  so  o'  them  thet  didn't  git  a  chance  to  go 
to  the  readin'  ast  ef  they  couldn't  come  in  on  their  way  to  school, 
an'  Sally  Ann  had  fixed  it  for  'em  to  come  breakfast-time  an'  set 
down  an'  see  her  eat.  Sally  Ann  opened  the  bed-room  door  an' 
let  'em  tiptoe  th'ough  one  by  one,  they  felt  so  bad  'bout  missin' 
her. 


178  WERNER'S  READINGS 

The  poor  thing-  looks  awful  haggard  an'  peaked,  an'  I  somehow 
think  this  travelin'  'round  the  country  while  it  must  be  fine  for  a 
change  from  that  ten-story  house  in  New  York  in  which  they 
say  she  lives,  can't  tickle  her  ez  much  we  thought  we  would,  but 
we've  done  our  best  by  her.  An'  she  knows  we  all  feel  proud 
to  a'  had  her  in  Simpkinville. 


AT  THE  "BOAER"  COUNTER. 


Monologue  for  Woman. 


J.  L.  HARBOUR. 


Scene  :     Department  Store.    "Lady  seller"  is  talking  to  customer. 

BOAERS?  Yes,  we've  a  new  lot  just  in — beautiful  ones  they 
are,  too — beautiful.  I'll  show  'em  to  you  soon  as  I  give  this 
lady  her  change.  What  makes  'em  so  slow  with  that  change?  If 
it  ain't  here  in  a  jiffy  I'll  speak  to  the  floor-walker.  It's  awfully 
annoyin'  to  have  to  wait  an'  wait  an'  wait  an' — here  'tis,  at  last — 
ten,  fifty,  eighty-two,  that's  right.  You  gave  me  a  five-dollar 
bill,  you  know.  Awfully  sorry  to  have  kept  you  waiting  so  long. 
Yes'm,  the  things  will  be  sent  in  time  to  reach  you  to-night.  I've 
made  a  rush  order  of  it,  an'  it  won't  be  my  fault  if  you  don't 
get  'em.  But  you  will,  all  right.  It  ain't  as  if  it  was  in  the  busy 
season  like  Christmas.  I  wouldn't  dare  promise  it  to  you  under 
forty-eight  hours  then,  but  it  will  go  all  right  now,  for  we  ain't 

half  so  busy  as 

Oh,  boaers?  About  what  priced  boaer  would  you  like?  We 
have  'em  from  five  dollars  up.  Of  course,  the  five-dollar  ones 
haven't  the  style  nor  they  won't  wear  so  well  as  the  high-priced 
ones,  and — no,  indeed,  boaers  are  not  going  out.  We  sell  just 
as  many  as  ever  we  did.  I  sold  an  alagant  one  this  morning  to 
one  of  the  most  fash'nable  ladies  on  Riverside  Drive — an  alagant 
one,  an'  she  wouldn't  be  found  dead  with  one  on  if  they'd  went  out 
o'  style.  But  they  ain't,  an'  they  ain't  likely  to.  They're  so  dressy 
— especially  the  light  ones  for  evenin'  wear.    I  got  me  a  new  one 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  32.  179 

the  other  day  just  to  wear  evenin's  when  I  want  to  look  real 
dressy.  Mine's  pale  blue  ostrich-feather  one,  an'  the  ends  come 
most  to  the  floor — an  alagant  thing-.  Ev'rybody  says  it's  awfully 
becomin',  but  if  I  look  well  in  anything,  it's  blue,  I'm  so  light, 
you  know.  Now,  you — well,  you  could  wear  blue  all  right — 
certain  shades.  I  don't  know  as  I'd  advise  you  to  get  a  real  light 
blue — not  as  light  as  the  new  Alice  Blue,  for 

Oh,  you  didn't  want  a  blue  one?  Well,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  don't 
think  it  would  be  as  becomin'  to  you  as  some  other  color.  Of 
course,  any  one  can  wear  black,  an'  black  is  always  appropriate, 
an'  then  it's  so  serviceable.  I  half  wish  I'd  got  me  a  black  boaer 
instead  of  a  blue  one,  but  then,  you  see,  when  it  gets  soiled  I 
can  have  it  dyed,  for — oh,  yes,  indeed,  they  dye  beautifully — 
beautifully!  My  sister  had  an  alagant  thing — paid  six  dollars  an' 
eighty-nine  cents  for  it,  marked  down  from  ten,  an'  it  was  a  sure- 
enough  mark-down,  too,  for  a  friend  of  ours  is  in  that  department 
in  the  store  where  my  sister  got  it,  an'  she  said  that  that  very 
same  identical  boaer  had  sold  for  ten  dollars  the  day  before  my 
sister  got  hers.  It  was  just  a  little  imperfect,  but  it  would  have 
taken  a  spy-glass  to  have  discovered  it.  Oh,  it  was  an  alagant 
thing!  She  goes  a  good  deal,  my  sister  does.  She's  married  to 
an  awfully  nice  fellow  who  has  his  twenty-nine  dollars  a  week, 
so  she  ain't  pinched  none  for  means,  an'  he  lets  her  get  anything 
she  wants.  I  tell  you,  she  dropped  into  a  tub  of  butter  when 
she  married. 

Her  husband  b'longs  to  the  Brothers  o'  this  an'  the  Sons  o'  that, 
an'  to  all  sorts  o'  leagues,  an'  they're  always  having  balls  an'  sup- 
pers, so  my  sister  goes  most  ev'ry  night,  so,  of  course,  it  was  hard 
on  a  white  feather  boaer,  but  when  it  got  real  soiled  she  had  it 
dyed  black  an'  it  come  out  beautiful, — beautiful!  You  wouldn't 
believe  that  it  had  ever  been  white,  an' — now  here's  a  beautiful 
plum-colored  one  that  would  look  well  on  you,  an'  plum  is  all  the 
rage  this  year,  an'  mos'  anyone  can  wear  it  even  if  they  are  as 
sallow  as  you — er — er — you  think  it  is  too  young  for  you?  Not 
a  bit  of  it.  You  don't  look  at  all  young  in  it.  Of  course,  I  don't 
mean   that — that — how  would   you   like  this  yellow   one?     You 


180  WERNER'S  READINGS 

don't  like  the  yellow  one?  No?  Well,  I  do  not.  Maybe  it  is  a 
little  gay  for  a  person  of  your  age,  but  you  know  that  real  old 
people  dress  real  gay  now.  I  sold  a  lady  that  couldn't  of  been 
a  day  under  seventy  a  red  boaer  the  other  day.  Of  course,  she 
looked  like  the  Old  Scratch  in  it,  an'  I  thought  some  o'  the  girls 
at  this  counter  would  die  laughing  when  she  walked  off  with  it 
on.  She  looked  turrible  in  it,  but,  then — say  Mag,  git  on  to  that 
dress  that  woman  over  there  at  the  glove  counter  has  on !  Ain't 
that  stunnin'? 

You'd  like  to  see  some  black  boaers  ?  We've  some  alagant  ones 
here,  just  alagant,  an',  as  I  say,  just  anyone  can  wear  black. 
Now,  here's  a  beautiful  thing — beautiful.  Marked  down  from 
nine  dollars  to  six  dollars  an'  forty-nine  cents.  You'd  get  a  real 
bargain  if  you  took  this.  There !  My !  but  that  looks  nice  on 
you !  One  thing  about  a  boaer  is  that  it  hides  a  scrawny  neck  so. 
You  see  that  comes  up  almost  to  your  ears,  an'  just  a  little  of 
the  front  of  the  neck  shows.  In  fact,  if  you  tie  it  up  close  none 
of  the  neck  shows,  an'  them  long  ends  hangin'  down  look  awfully 
dressy.    If  I  was  you  I'd 

Of  course,  I  haven't  got  your  pencil,  May !  If  you'd  form  the 
habit  of  tuckin'  the  pencil  in  your  back  hair  you'd  always  know 
just  where  it  was.  I  declare  I  think  you  must  be  in  love,  the 
way  you  lose  things !  Hum !  I'd  hate  to  be  the  fellow  to  ask 
you  if  I  didn't  mean  it  for — oh,  say,  did  you  know  that  Sadie  has 
her  engagement-ring?  She  showed  it  to  me  on  the  car  last  night. 
She  thinks  it's  a  real  solitary  diamond,  but  I  have  my  doubts  about 
it.  He  don't  get  but  eleven  dollars  a  week,  an'  I'll  tell  you  how 
I  know.  My  brother  Joe  works  in  the  same  place  he  does,  an' 
they  do  the  same  work  an'  git  the  same  pay,  so  I  have  it  straight 
about  his  wages.  Joe  says  he  got  the  ring  on  payments.  You'd 
think  to  hear  Sadie  talk,  that  she'd  caught  a  Vanderbilt.  She  told 
me  last  night  she  thought  they'd  board  for  a  while  in  some  apart- 
ment hotel,  an'  that  "Sam  thought  of  buildin'  some  place  in  the 
suburbs."  Don't  that  jar  you?  An'  him  with  'leven  a  week! 
I  guess  he'll  keep  on  thinkin'  about  buildin'.  No,  the  time  for  the 
weddin'  isn't  set  yet,  but  Sadie  says  that 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  32.  181 

Gray  boaer?  Now,  that  would  look  real  well  on  you.  Gray  is 
like  black,  'most  anyone  can  wear  it,  an'  it's  always  in  good  taste, 
an'  it — no,  I  don't  think  that  you  are  too  pale  to  wear  gray.  My 
goodness !  lots  of  paler  ladies  than  you  wear  gray.  Then  this 
isn't  a  real  light  gray.  I  sold  one  just  like  this  to  the  awfullest 
washed-out  woman  yesterday,  an'  if  she  could  wear  it  I'm  sure 
that  you  could,  for — you  think  it  makes  you  look  sallower  in  it 
than  you  do  in  anything  else.  Ever  try  buttermilk  for  clearin' 
out  your  skin?  A  friend  o'  mine  drinks  a  quart  ev'ry  day  an' 
washes  her  face  in  it  ev'ry  night  an'  let's  it  dry  on,  but  I  don't 
see  that  it  is  helping  her  very  much.  Still,  you  might  try  it.  One 
man's  meat  is  another  man's  poison,  as  they  say.  But  as  for  that 
boaer  makin'  you  look  any  sallower  than  you  are,  I  don't  think  it, 
for — say,  May,  don't  you  think  this  boaer  is  awfully  becomin'  to 
this  lady?  She  thinks — of  course,  it  don't  exactly  match  your 
hair.  What  boaer  would?  If  you  only  had  enough  hair  to  wear 
it  pompadoor  it  would  be  becomin'  to  you. 

You  thought  some  of  getting  a  lace  and  chiffon  boaer?  Oh, 
they've  all  gone  out.  Feather  boaers  are  the  thing  to  get,  if  one 
wears  a  boaer  at  all.  Of  course,  furs  are  the  thing,  but,  my  soul 
an'  body,  it  takes  a  fortune  to  buy  any  that  you  want  to  wear. 
They  charge  three  hundred  just  for  a  muff  alone,  an'  then  you 
can't  tell  it  from  a  good  imitation.  The  beauty  of  furs  is  that 
they  can  be  imitated  so  that  you  can't  tell  the  real  from  the  imita- 
tion. One  of  the  girls  over  on  the  lace-counter  has  a  muff  an' 
tippet  that  she  got  for  nine  dollars  that  you  can't  tell  from  a  real 
sable  across  a  room.  Of  course,  if  you  could  afford  a  fur  tippet 
it  would  be  more  stylish  than  a  boaer,  but  you  can  wear  a  boaer 
when  you  can't  wear  a  tippet.  They  wear  them  with  evenin'- 
dress.  My  cousin  has  a  pale  pink  one  that  she  wears  with  evenin'- 
dress.  She  has  a  pink  feather  fan  to  wear  with  it,  an'  a  pink 
silk  sash,  an'  a  pink  set  o'  pompons  for  her  hair,  an',  I  tell  you, 
when  she  comes  out  in  'em  all  you'd  never  guess  that  she  works  in 
a  candy  fact'ry  at  nine  a  week,  an'  she  wouldn't  get  half  that,  if 
she  wasn't  forelady.     You  know,  she  says  that  she  doesn't  care 


182  WERNER'S  READINGS 

any  more  for  candy  than  she  does  for  bread.  My!  but  I'd  like 
to  have  a  chance  to  eat  candy  until  I  felt  like  that. 

You  think  you'll  try  on  some  lace  an'  chiffon  boaers?  They 
are  on  another  counter — third  aisle  to  the  left,  half-way  up.  But 
I  think  you'd  find  it  to  your  advantage  to  get  a  feather  one.  As 
I  say,  the  others  ain't  worn  but  very  little  now,  an'  feather  boaers 
will  always  be  fash'nable — always.  Oh,  very  well,  if  you  prefer 
one  of  the  other  kind.    But  as  I  say 

Thank  heaven,  she's  gone!  I  don't  believe  she  wants  to  get  a 
boaer  of  any  kind.  Don't  I  get  good  an'  sick  o'  those  women  that 
stand  an'  try  on  things  for  half  an  hour  an'  talk  you  to  death  an' 
then  never  buy  a  thing!  Say,  Mag,  what  time  is  it?  Why  it's 
time  to  go  home  !    Let's  go  !     [Exit.] 


AS  JIMMIE  SEES  IT. 


CHARLES  C.  JONES. 


I'M  goin'  to  th'  Baptis'  church  an'  be  a  Baptis'  boy, 
I  guess  I'll  go  to  Sunday-school  as  nice  as  nice  kin  be; 
I'll  sit  so  still  an'  quiet-like  that  I  jest  won't  annoy 

Th'  sup'rintendent  when  he  speaks  to  all  th'  kids  an'  me ; 
I'll  be  th'  very  best  I  kin, 
Until  their  summer  picnic's  been, 
An'  then  I'll  ketch  that  preacher's  kid  an'  square  things  up, 
you  see ! 

I'll  bring  my  ma  a  lot  o'  wood  an'  keep  th'  front  yard  clean, 

I'm  goin'  to  behave  myself  an'  work  a  awful  lot; 
I'll  stay  at  home  on  Mondays,  too,  an'  run  th'  wash-machine, 
An'  scrub  th'  porch  an'  all  th'  walks,  no  matter  if  'tis  hot; 
But  when  that  picnic  ain't  no  more, 
I'll  take  that  kid  that  lives  next  door 
An'  lick  th'  very  stuffin'  out  o'  him,  as  like  as  not ! 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  S3.  183 

I'll  run  to  Smiley's  store  an'  git  my  ma  a  lot  o'  things, 

Like  thread  an'  stuff,  an'  see-gars,  too,  fer  pa  an'  Uncle  Jim; 
I'll  be  a  "busy  little  bee,"  like  kindergartners  sings — 
No  one  '11  git  a  chance  to  say  that  I'm  "a  lazy  limb"; 
But  when  that  picnic's  gone  again, 
I'll  git  that  groc'ry  boy,  an'  then — 
Doggone  th'  luck! — he's  jest  so  big,  I'm  skeered  to  tackle  him! 


THE  SILVER  VEDDING. 


Comedy,  German  Dialect,  Monologue  for  Man. 


VE  hadt  a  silver  vedding  at  our  house  last  veek.  Not  dot  I've 
been  married  twenty-five  years,  but  I  needed  der  silver. 
Somehow  or  other,  everypody  brought  lead  pipe.  I  guess  dey 
dought  it  vas  a  cinch. 

Everyvon  vas  dere.  O'Brien  vas  dere.  O'Brien  iss  a  silver 
man.  Dey  tell  me  dot  he  vas  born  mit  a  silver  spoon  in  der 
house.  His  old  man  got  arrested  for  it,  too.  His  right  name 
iss  Brien,  but  he's  got  so  many  cred^ors  around  der  house  dot  ve 
call  him  O'-Brien. 

But  you  should  haff  been  at  der  banquet.  I  haff  never  seen 
such  a  spread.  All  der  indelicacies  of  der  season.  Ve  hadt  sauer- 
kraut und  lemonade,  pigs'  feet  und  buddermilk,  Velsh  rarebits 
made  oud  of  Limburger  cheese,  red  herring,  und  cocoanut  pie  und 
Worcester  street  sauce.  Und  besides,  ve  hadt  Beewer's  Orchestra; 
und,  vile  der  people  vere  eating,  dey  played  appropriate  moosic, 
like  "Get  Your  Money's  Vorth." 

After  der  banquet  vas  over,  all  der  married  men  got  up  on 
der  hind  legs  und  told  how  happy  der  married  life  vas?  I  got  up 
mit  der  rest  und  lied  chust  like  dey  did. 

But  let  me  tell  you  von  ding.  Dere  iss  a  time  in  every  man's 
life  ven  he  dinks  he  iss  chust  about  der  whole  shooting-match, 
der  whole  thing,  ven  he  imagines  dot  he  iss  valking  on  diamond- 
dust  clouds  und  dot  feadders  are  sticking  oud  all  over  him.  Dot's 
ven  he  iss  a  father  for  der  first  time. 


184  WERNER'S  READINGS 

How  ridiculous  a  chump  a  man  iss  ven  he  first  becomes  a  papa ! 
He  doesn't  know  it,  but  everypody  else  does.  By  golly !  I  often 
vonder  how  George  Vashington  felt  ven  he  first  became  der  father 
of  his  country.  Chee-viss,  ven  a  man  first  becomes  a  father,  he 
acts  so  foolish ! 

But  I  can  excuse  'em.  By  jingo!  I  like  babies  mineself;  und 
ven  I  see  a  man  who  doesn't  like  babies,  I've  got  my  supersticions 
of  him.  I'll  bet  dot  ven  he  vas  a  baby  dot  somepody  liked  him, 
und  I  don't  care  how  ugly  he  vas,  neither.  Ve  are  very  happy, 
my  vife  und  me.  Ve  naff  got  fourteen  children  in  our  house.  Ve 
have  got  one,  und  an  Italian  family  dot  lives  upstairs  has  thirteen. 

Ve  haven't  got  an  alarm-clock  in  our  house.  Ven  I  vant  to  get 
up  early  in  der  morning  I  fix  der  clock  so  dat  ven  it  strikes  five  it 
sets  off  a  spring,  der  spring  hits  a  shawl-pin,  der  shawl-pin  hits 
our  baby,  our  baby  sets  in  on  a  solo,  Liddle  Italy  hears  it  upstairs; 
dey  set  up  a  chorus  from  La  Boheme,  und  ve  avake  in  a  minute. 

Ven  a  father  iss  a  father  for  der  first  time,  he's  alvays  dinking 
about  der  little  baby,  as  if  his  baby  vas  der  only  baby  on  der  earth, 
und  he  der  only  father.  Vy,  he  never  gives  his  vife  credit  at 
all !  (t 

Some  morning,  chust  ven  der  baby  iss  new,  he  vakes  it  up  at  two 
o'clock,  oud  of  a  sound  sleep,  chust  to  see  it  laff.  But  you  can  chust 
bet  your  bottom  dollar  dot  he  doesn't  do  it  twice ! 

Ven  my  child  grows  up,  I  vill  be  very  careful  about  his  school- 
ing. Schools  are  not  like  dey  used  to  be.  Vy,  what  has  become 
of  McGuffey's  or  Sander's  Fourth  Reader?  Vy,  ven  I  vas  a 
boy  ve  had  reading  lessons  someding  like  dis :  "Oh,  mother, 
look  at  der  liddle  vite  rabbit."  "Iss  it  a  vite  rabbit,  my  child?" 
"Yes,  mother,  it  iss  a  vite  rabbit." 

You  see,  you  couldn't  make  a  Velsh  rabbit  oud  off  it,  even  if 
you  had  der  cheese. 

Und  den  the  arithmetic — vy,  it's  so  simplified  now-a-days,  dot 
a  child  can  learn  it  in  two  lessons.  But  ven  I  vent  to  school  it 
vas  different.  In  dose  days  ve  had  vulgar  fractions,  und  decent 
fractions,  und  also  problems,  Ve  had  problems  to  figure  on, 
someding  like  dis ; 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  22.  185 

"Two  men  go  oud  fishing.  Von  goes  to  der  Fishing  Banks  und 
der  oder  goes  to  Sandy  Hook.  Dey  meet  dot  night  in  a  saloon. 
Problem:    Vich  iss  der  biggest  liar?" 

Here's  another  problem  dot  I  heard  just  now : 

"Vy  does  a  girl  like  Pike's  peak?  Because  der  iss  a  Manitou 
at  der  bottom  of  it." 

Und  ve  used  to  haff  problems  like  this : 

"A  man  buys  a  sausage  und  eats  it.  Der  next  day  he  gets  a 
letter  telling  him  der  sausage  was  made  oud  of  dog's  meat; 
answer:  who  gave  him  der  pointer?" 

But  I  like  to  dink  of  der  Sunday  school.  More  dan  a  thou- 
sand times  haff  I  passed  der  door  of  dat  Sunday  school !  Und 
dose  beautiful  adverbs  dey  used  to  unfold  to  us  as  we  sat  in  der 
Sunday  school  listening  to  der  birds  a-twittering  und  der  brook- 
trouts'  purrink. 

Vile  we  sat  dere  der  kind  teachers  would  teach  us  dot — 

"Dere's  many  a  slip  between  der  upper  lip  und  der  dipper." 
"Birds  of  der  same  kind  of  feadders  go  by  demselves." 
"Ven  der  Tom-cat  has  gone  oud,  der  kittens  got  some  fun." 
"A  bird  in  der  hands  beats  a  flush." 

Oh,  vadt  fine  cinnimints  ! 


COLORED  LAUNDRESS'S  DIPLOMACY. 


Comedy  Negro-dialect  Monologue  for  Woman. 


ALICE  R.  FORSYTHE. 


Characters:     Laundress,  speaker  present;  Mis'  Jos'feem,  supposed  to 
be  present. 

[Colored  woman,  entering  with  basket  of  clothes,  acts  shy  at  first, 
then,  apparently  discovering  Mis'  Jos'feem,  stops,  puts  basket  down 
and,  placing  hands  on  hips,  talks  as  follows:] 

MIS'  JOS'FEEM,  I  done  brung  yo'  washitr  home,  an'  mom- 
mer  say  you'll  sho'ly  'scuse  hit  bein'  so  fuh  behin'  time 
w'en  I  done  tol.'  you  'bout  po'  li'l  Johnsonilla's  'fliction.  De  doctah 
am  pernounce  hit  de  gustibrashun  in  de  stummick,  an'  mommer 


186  WERNER'S  READINGS 

say  to  'splain  dat's  huccome  she  so  long  a-gittin'  yo'  clo'es  done 
up,  kaze  dat  chile  tek  so  much  fixin'  an'  doin'  fo'. 

Wat?  Fo'  de  Lawd  sake!  Mis'  Jos'feem,  yo'  don'  'spicion  us 
high-toned  culled  folks  would  be  a-weahin'  people's  clo'es  w'at  we 
washes  fo',  does  you?  I  won'  say  but  w'at  dey  am  low-down 
niggahs  w'at  does  hoi'  'em  ovah  to  weah,  but —  Huh?  Yo'  say 
yo'  done  saw  me  wid  Mis'  Stone's  linen  suit  on,  yo'se'f  ?  Er — w'y 
— say,  honey,  dere  ain'  nuffin'  'scapes  dem  bright  eyes  ob  yo'n, 
an'  so  I'll  des  up  an'  tell  yo'-all  huccome  I  done  sech  a  thing. 

Hit's  disaway.  Mis'  Stone  sen'  huh  clo'es  a-Monday,  an'  don' 
aixpec'  'em  back  befo'  a-Sat'day,  an'  w'en  de  Babtis'  picnic  come 
erlong  a-Wed'sday,  behol'  yo'  I  ain'  got.er  tack  to  muh  back 
a-fitten  to  go  out  in  wid  Mistah  Aljuhnon  Attahbu'y  Metropolitan 
Sykes,  an'  dat  linen  suit  des  fit  me.  I  ain't  hut  hit  a  speck,  an' 
mommer  had  it  all  fresh  'gainst  noon  de  nex'  day.  No'm,  Mis' 
Jos'feem,  we  wouldn'  nebbah  do  hit  wid  no  one  else's  clo'es,  neb- 
bah !    Hones'  truf  ! 

Anyhow,  honey,  you  knows  yo'se'f  dat  Mis'  Stone  ain'  real 
quality  lak  ouah  othah  w'ite  folks;  she's  Noan'thun!  Er — yas'm 
■ — haw !  haw !  haw !  I  does  know  dat  yo'  is  fum  de  Nawth,  but 
'peahs  lak  I  nebbah  kin  recommembah  dat  fac',  an'  mommer,  too. 
She  alius  say  Mis'  Jos'feem  sho'  is  des  lak  ouah  own  w'ite  folks 
clown  Souf,  an'  dey  wuz  de  qualifiedest  kin'  ob  quality.  Yas'm, 
we-all  knows  bettah  dan  to  tek  libbuties  wid  yo'  clo'es  ! 

Mommer  tol'  me  fo'  to  ax  you  to  len'  us  yo'  big  persurbin'  kittle, 
'kaze  she  hatter  cook  up  a  mess  ob  watahmillion  persurbs  fo'  de 
night  watchahs.  LiT  Johnsonilla  gwine  tek  a  heap  ob  nussin',  day 
an'  night,  to  escranchuate  huh  back  fum  de  jaws  ob  death.  De 
preachah  he  say  so  las'  night,  an'  he  comin'  agin  to-night  tuh 
'minister  consiblation  to  de  'flicted,  an'  eat  fried  chicken  an'  cur'n' 
jell. 

An'  Mis'  Jos'feem,  honey,  mommer  say  she  reckon  yo'-all  done 
got  all  de  weah  yo'  want  outen  dat  ol'  pink  necklerjay  ob  yo'n, 
an'  she  lak  to  show  dat  stuck-up  Mis'  Hudgins,  w'at  alluz  come 
dodgin'  in  dress  fit  to  kill  w'en  she  see  de  preachah  a-comin' — 
mommer  lak  to  des  let  huh  see  dat  we  suttinly  am  a  tony  fambly 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  32.  187 

an'  knows  how  to  kenstruck  de  appeahance  ob  sech  undah  de  sar- 
cumstances  ob  tribblashun  an'  dezease.  An'  de  necklejay  des  fit 
mommer  lak  hit  be'n  made  fo'  huh,  'deed  hit  do,  Mis'  Jos'feem. 
Yas'm;  thank  you,  ma'am;  mommer'll  suttinly  be  'bliged  to  yo\ 
honey. 


SUB  ROSA.  * 


Monologue  for  Man. 


EDITH  F.  A.  U.  PAINTON 
[edith   palmer  putnam]. 


Characters:  Husband,  speaker  present;  wife,  Helen,  supposed  to  be 
present  in  Scene  II. 

Costumes:  Dressing-gown  for  Scene  I.  worn  over  masquerade  costume 
(royal  costume  of  time  of  Henry  VIII.  of  England)  for  Scene  II. 
Dressing-gown  may  be  quickly  removed,  and  crown  and  mask 
adjusted  while  curtains  rise  to  disclose  Scene  II. 

Stage-Setting:  Stage  is  set  for  two  scenes  by  using  dividing  curtains 
across  center  of  stage  from  side  to  side.  Scene  I.  requires  small 
table  at  right  of  stage  front  C,  rocking-chair  at  left  of  table, 
but  at  C.  of  stage  front.  Scene  II.  requires  anteroom  opening 
into  ball-room.  Settee  placed  in  front  of  potted  plants  at  stage 
R.     Back  entrance  picturing  adjacent  ball-room. 

Time  of  Presentation  :     30  minutes. 

[As  stage-setting  for  this  monologue  is  same  as  that  for  "En  Masque."  the 
two  monologues  may  be  given  effectively  at  same  entertainment,  one  following 
the  other.] 

SCENE   I. 

[Husband  enters,  smoking  cigar.  Puffs  as  he  crosses  room,  and 
flings  himself  into  rocking-chair.  Smokes  awhile  in  silence,  looks  all 
around  room,  listens  a  moment,  and  begins  to  speak.] 

WONDER  where  Helen's  taken  herself  to !  That's  the  worst 
of  a  woman,  anyway — they've  always  got  to  be  on  the  gad 
somewhere.  Not  that  I've  got  any  great  kick  coming.  Helen  is 
a  dear  little  thing,  perfectly  devoted  to  me,  I  am  sure,  even  if  she 
does  like  to  receive  a  little  attention  from  other  men.  She  is 
young,  and  so  charming  that  I  suppose  the  fellows  can't  help  it; 


•Companion    to     "En    Masque"     [$.25],    monologue    for    woman,    published    by 
Edgar  S.   Werner  &  Co.,   New  York. 


188  WERNER'S  READINGS 

but  I  wish  she  didn't  show  her  satisfaction  over  the  sensation  she 
creates  quite  so  openly — that's  all. 

Of  course,  I'm  not  in  the  least  bit  jealous — I  wouldn't  lower 
myself  to  the  point  of  jealousy,  whatever  happened.  Jealousy  is 
a  mean,  ignoble  trait,  altogether  unworthy  of  a  place  in  the  make- 
up of  any  human  being  calling  himself  a  man.  But,  for  all  that, 
nobody  likes  to  think  that  his  wife  is  a  flirt. 

Of  course,  I  can  trust  Helen — bless  her  little  heart !  but — oh ! 
I  don't  know !  She  is  so  much  younger  than  I  am  that  I  can't 
help  wondering  sometimes  if  she  is  altogether  satisfied  with  her 
bargain;  and  then,  when  I  saw  her  waltzing  around  in  the  arms 
of  a  conceited  young  puppy  like  that  Frank  Brown,  it  did  hurt  a 
little,  I'll  admit. 

And  I  think  she  knew  it,  the  tantalizing  little  witch !  and  just 
delighted  in  tormenting  me.  I  told  her  firmly  that  she  must  not 
dance  the  second  waltz  with  him,  because  it  made  her  too  con- 
spicuous. What  a  mocking  courtesy  she  made  me,  as  she  said, 
"So  sorry,  my  liege  lord,  but,  you  see,  I  have  already  given  my 
word;  and  you  know,  Harry,  I  must  keep  my  word  good,  or  I 
shall  be  unworthy  of  bearing  your  name !"  And  then  away  she 
whirled  with  Brown !  Confound  him !  I  contented  myself  with 
giving  Helen  a  good  piece  of  my  mind,  and  I  have  reason  to  hope 
that  I  shall  see  signs  of  reformation.  Helen  is  young,  and  will 
doubtless  outgrow  it.  I  am  sorry  she  is  not  going  to  Mrs.  Slau- 
son's  masquerade  on  the  tenth.  I  really  should  be  glad  of  the 
opportunity  of  watching  her.  But  she  says,  she  positively  can't 
go,  and  so,  of  course,  there  is  no  more  to  be  said.  I  know  that 
her  "can't"  means  "won't."  But  the  worst  of  it  is  that  she  says 
I  must  go  just  the  same,  for  Mrs.  Slauson  is  so  sensitive,  etc. — 
fidgety  old  thing ! — and  that  she  has  shown  us  so  many  favors  that 
it's  really  my  duty  to  go.  [Makes  zvry  face.']  I  suppose  it  is. 
It  must  be  my  duty,  seeing  it's  so  deuced  unpleasant.  I  hate  mas- 
querades, anyway.  They  are  too  free  and  easy,  altogether  too 
unconventional  to  suit  me.  Everybody  feels  at  liberty  to  do  and 
say  just  what  he  pleases,  and  the  women  expect  every  man  they 
see  to  flirt  with  them.     They  get  slipped  up  on  that  when  they 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  32.  189 

come  in  contact  with  me !  Flirt  ?  I'd  like  to  see  myself  trying  to 
shine  around  any  of  them !  I  never  forget  that  I'm  a  married 
man — no,  never !  I  don't  intend  that  any  of  the  fair  ones  shall 
forget  it,  either.  I'll  put  my  little  Helen  up  against  them  all. 
[Rises.] 

I  wish  the  tormented  blow-out  was  over!  Well,  I'll  just  show 
myself  for  a  little  while,  and  then  slip  out.  [Feels  pockets.]  Con- 
found this  cigar !  Where  are  my  kindlers  ?  Not  a  match  to  be 
found!    I'll  go  and  replenish.     [Exit.] 

SCENE  II 

[Husband  enters  from  back  entrance  to  soft  dance  music,  coming 
apparently  from  adjacent  ball-room.  He  pauses  'in  doorway  and 
speaks.] 

There !  I've  danced  with  three  dowagers,  and  two  old  maids. 
That  ought  to  entitle  me  to  a  diploma.  I  wonder  if  Helen  wouldn't 
think  I  had  done  my  duty  now,  and  let  me  off?  It's  such  a  bore ! 
I  haven't  seen  one  attractive  figure  here  to-night,  positively  not 
one. 

Ah !  who  is  that  little  fairy  in  the  Parthenia  gown,  I  wonder  ? 
She's  something  worth  while — slight,  tall,  graceful  and  piquant — 
just  what  a  woman  ought  to  be.  Wish  she  didn't  have  that  mask 
on !  Wonder  if  I  can't  find  Mrs.  Slauson  and  get  an  introduction 
— oh,  I  forgot;  we  don't  need  any  such  preliminary  to-night.  I'll 
just  brace  right  up  to  her.  Plague  take  it  all — haven't  I  seen  her 
before  somewhere?  There's  something  familiar  about  her.  I 
hope  if  it  is  any  one  who  knows  me,  that  she  won't  recognize  me. 
But  I  haven't  much  fear.  My  disguise  is  well  chosen.  Shall  I 
speak  to  her,  or  shall  I  not  ?  Ah !  she  is  looking  this  way — she 
sees  me — there's  no  chance  to  retreat  now.  I'm  in  for  it,  but  I 
don't  imagine  it  will  be  any  great  hardship.  She  certainly  is 
mighty  tempting. 

[Advances  to  front  of  settee,  and  makes  lozv  and  courtly  bozi'.] 

Good-evening,  madame !  May  I  have  the  pleasure  of  a  dance? 
You  are  not  dancing?  That  is  certainly  too  bad — for  me!  I  am 
certain  you  would  make  a  delightful  partner. 


190  WERNER'S  READINGS 

Thank  you,  I  believe  I  will  sit  down.  Some  temptations  are  too 
strong  to  be  resisted — this  is  one!  [Sits  on  settee.]  I  see  you 
are  Parthenia.  Yes,  indeed,  I  should  dearly  love  to  be  your 
Ingomar,  if  you — oh,  of  course,  I  know  it  wouldn't  be  polite  to 
say  otherwise,  but  I  assure  you,  my  dear  madame,  I  am  in  earnest 
— terribly  in  earnest.  [Sighs  sentimentally.]  You  think  the 
earnestness  will  soon  be  gone?  Now,  madame,  you  misjudge  me. 
[Reproachfully .] 

True,  man-nature  is  the  same  the  world  over;  and,  if  you  will 
permit  me  to  say  it,  I  feel  sure  that  if  you  knew  men  as  well  as 
you  think  you  do,  you  must  know  that  we  are  not  all  deceivers. 
But,  pardon  me,  are  you  alone?  Of  course,  I  don't  mean  just  at 
this  particular  minute,  but  did  you  come  alone?  Pretty  girls 
should  not  be  out  alone  after  dark.  How  can  I  guess  your  looks? 
Ah,  madame,  [tenderly] 

"So  sweet  a  voice,  such  charming  grace, 
Could  only  match  a  pretty  face!" 

Now  don't  laugh  at  me !  A  fellow  surely  has  a  right  to  be 
sentimental  once  in  a  while,  and — well,  really,  the  present  scene, 
the  present  music,  and  the  present  companion  would  make  a  poet 
out  of  the  most  confirmed  cynic. 

My  wife?  [Starts,  speaks  aside.]  By  Jove!  if  I  hadn't  for  the 
moment  forgotten  all  about  Helen!  [Aloud.]  Now,  what  in  the 
world  makes  you  think  I  have  a  wife?  You  can  always  tell  a 
married  man  ?     Nonsense !     How,  pray  tell  ? 

Oh,  come  now,  you  are  a  little  hard  on  married  men.  I  don't 
think  they  flirt  one-half  so  much  as  bachelors  do.  You  say  you 
know  man-nature,  permit  me  to  retaliate,  and  say  that  I  know 
woman-nature  thoroughly;  and  one  of  her  most  predominating 
characteristics  is  the  determination  to  have  her  own  sweet  way 
always  and  forever !  And  she  has  it,  too !  Oh,  yes,  trust  her 
for  that ! 

You  still  persist  in  crediting  me  with  a  wife?  Well,  if  you  will 
have  it  so,  let's,  just  for  the  sake  of  argument,  suppose  that  I  have 
one — what  then?  Because  a  man  is  married,  is  he  to  be  denied 
the  privilege  of  admiring  another  pretty  face? 


AND  RECITATIONS  NO.  $2.  191 

Oh,  come  now,  my  dear  lady,  I  haven't  said  so  much  that  is  out 
of  the  way.  Surely,  there  is  no  harm  in  a  little  fun !  You  think 
it  may  not  always  end  with  a  "little  fun"?  You  seem  determined 
to  quarrel.  I  am  broken-hearted  over  your  coldness.  Why  should 
it  go  too  far?  We  are  masked  to-night,  and  who  will  be  any 
wiser? 

[Looks  into  ball-room.'] 

What  do  I  think  of  that  little  lady  in  pink?  Oh,  she  does  very 
well,  I  dare  say;  but  I  very  much  prefer,  if  I  must  talk  of  the 
ladies,  to  talk  of  you.  What  do  I  think  of  you?  Now,  that's 
hardly  a  fair  question.  My  opinion  of  you,  fair  lady,  is  too  deep 
for  expression.  Now  that  wasn't  evasion  at  all,  but  your  question 
seemed  so  unnecessary,  when  you  have  known  all  the  time  that  I 
think  you  perfectly  charming.  Don't  scold,  please  don't.  May  I 
not  have  the  delight  of  attending  you  at  supper? 

Of  course,  I  know  that  we  are  to  unmask  before  supper,  but 
you  needn't  fear  any  disillusion  on  my  part.  I  am  willing  to  risk 
all  chances — oh!  very  willing,  indeed !  I  may  take  you  in  then? 
Thanks,  dear  lady,  thanks !  I  am  dying  for  a  glimpse  of  your 
face. 

Oh,  perhaps  the  case  is  not  exactly  fatal.  Men  don't  "shuffle 
off  this  mortal  coil"  quite  so  easily  in  this  prosaic  age !  But  do 
you  know,  there  is  something  about  you  that  has  impressed  me 
most  strangely.  I  can't  explain  it,  but  I  am  haunted  by  the  idea 
that  I  have  seen  you  somewhere,  though  I  haven't  the  slightest 
notion  when  or  where.  No  doubt,  as  you  say,  it  is  only  a  chance 
resemblance.  At  any  rate,  I  trust  Fate  will  make  it  possible  for 
me  to  see  you  again.  Oh,  come  now !  you  know,  I'm  not  at  all 
afraid  of  being  disenchanted  ! 

Dear  lady,  I  wish  I  had  the  power  to  express  the  thoughts  that 
are  in  my  heart  to-night.     Do  you  believe  in  love  at  first  sight? 

Love  before  sight?  Why,  what  do — ah!  I  understand.  [Sighs.] 
You  are  cruel,  madame,  oh,  very  cruel !  Have  you  not  ever  proved 
the  sweet  truth  of  the  theory  of  affinity?  You  do  not  believe  in 
it  ?    Ah,  I  am  sure,  if  you  would  only  allow  me,  that  I  could  teach 


192  WERNER'S  READINGS 

you  to.  No  ?  Cruel,  cruel  madame !  I  most  certainly  do  believe 
in  love  at  first  sight — to-night ! 

Ah !  twelve  o'clock,  so  soon  ?  How  rapidly  and  happily  time 
has  sped !  I  assure  you,  fair  lady,  I  shall  never,  never  forget  this 
delightful  evening.  [Unmasks.]  Come,  madame,  do  let  me  assist 
you  to  unmask  !  [Leans  far  over.']  Just  one  peep  into  your  face  ! 
[Starts  back  in  chagrin.]  Helen!  you?  [Rises  excitedly,  mask 
in  hand.  Speaks  impatiently.]  For  goodness  sake,  what  does  this 
mean?  [Assumes  guilty  look.]  Flirting?  Oh,  see  here,  now, 
Helen,  you  know  it  was  only  a  little — amusement — a  little  diver- 
sion— altogether  harmless,  you  know,  dear,  and — yes,  go  on !  wait 
for  me  in  the  hall.  I'll  be  along  in  a  minute !  [Watches  ivife  off, 
looking  much  embarrassed.     Turns  to  audience.] 

Thunder  and  lightning !  This  is  a  deuce  of  a  scrape !  Who'd 
ever  have  dreamed  of  such  a  thing  ?  Plague  take  a  woman,  any- 
way !  You  never  can  tell  what  mischief  they'll  be  up  to  next ! 
And,  oh,  there'll  be  no  use  of  my  ever  trying  to  interfere  with 
Helen's  flirtations  again !  She'll  worry  the  life  out  of  me ;  and, 
of  course,  I  won't  hear  the  last  of  this  as  long  as  I  live.  [Sighs.] 
And  I  imagined  it  all  so  entirely  sub  rosal 

Well,  I'll  put  on  as  bold  a  face  as  I  can.  But  I'm  in  for  it 
with  a  vengeance !  May  heaven  have  mercy  on  me.  [Exits 
slowly.] 


WERNER'S   BOOK 
OF    PANTOMIMES 

Known  also  as 

"  Werner's  Readings  and  Recitations  No  41" 


192  Pages.  31  ELABORATE  PANTO/IIMES  with  full 
directions  for  action-work,  stage-setting,  scenic  effects, 
stage-properties,  costumes,  etc.  Book  contains  also  19 
Action  Poems  Suitable  for  Children. 


1 


Price  60c.  in  PaPer  binding  )  p         -d 
$1.00  in  cloth  binding  )  y 

NOTE. — All  selections  pantomimed  are  in  verse.  Text  0/ 
pantomimes  is  printed  first  complete  as  a  recitation,  then  printed 
again  ■with  pantomimic  directions.  This  arrangement  meets 
needs  of  reciter,  in  case  he  wants  selection  by  itself  only;  and  also 
meets  needs  o/pantomimist,  who  has  pantomimic  directions  next 
to  text. 

BOOK  CONTAINS  FOLLOWING  PANTOMIMES  : 

AMERICA.  ("My  Country  'Tis  of  Thee.")  Poem  by  Samuel 
F.  Smith.  Patriotic  Recitation  or  Song  and  Pantomime. 
Any  number. 

ANGELS'  SERENADE.  Dialogue  and  Pantomime  between 
mother  and  dying  child. 

ART  WILL  HAVE  NO  RIVAL.  Romantic  Acting  Pantomime 
(without  words)  and  _  Statue-Posing.  Grecian  sculptor 
and  his  statues  (women  in  Greek  gowns).  Can  be  expanded 
into  elaborate  spectacular  entertainment,  depicting  vari- 
ous emotions  as  Accusation,  Agony,  Appeal,  Aversion, 
Joy,  Love,  Shame,  etc.    2  men,  12  women,  or  all  women. 

BELLS  OF  SHANDON.  Poem  by  Francis  Mahoney.  Child- 
hood Reminiscent  Recitation  and  Pantomime.  1  or  several 
persons. 

BETTER  LATE  THAN  NEVER.  Romantic  Acting  Pantomime 
(without  words).     1   girl,   1   man. 

BLUE  AND  THE  GRAY.  Poem  by  Frances  M.  Finch.  10 
or  12  young  women.  Memorial  Day  or  Confederate  Day 
Recitation  and   Pantomime. 

BRIDGE.  Poem  by  Longfellow.  Reminiscent  Philosophical 
Recitation  and   Pantomime.     Any  number. 

BUGLE  SONG.  Poem  by  Tennyson.  Fanciful  Recitation 
(with  voice-effects)  or  Song  and  Pantomime.  6  to  10 
girls. 

COLUMBIA,  THE  GEM  OF  THE  OCEAN  ("The  Red,  White, 
and  Blue.")  Poem  by  David  T.  Shaw.  Patriotic  Recita- 
tion or  Song  and  Pantomime.  1  boy  or  girl;  or  several 
bovs  or  girls. 

COURTING  UNDER  DIFFICULTIES.  Humorous  Romantic 
Acting  Pantomime  (without  words).  1  woman,  1  girl,  1 
man ,   1   bov. 

CUSTER;S  LAST  CHARGE.  Poem  by  Frederick  Whittaker. 
Heroic  Indian  Battlefield  Recitation  and  Pantcmime.  1 
man;    or  any  number  of  men. 

~~~~       *~~  ~~~        "  rovF«f" 


*M 


